Duncan was certain of the fact that never in his baby bro’s wildest dreams did the kid envision the fall of civilized society caused by the worldwide spread of a deadly virus capable of making the newly dead reanimate.
Baby bro spent his inheritance wisely, Duncan thought to himself between nauseating pulses of pain and cold sweats. If only I had done the same.
A succession of clangs echoed somewhere in the distance followed by another series of sharp raps on the door.
“Duncan... you up?” a muffled voice inquired from the other side.
“Am now... come on in, I’m decent,” Duncan drawled. “Just do not slam that door.”
The Vietnam-era aviator recognized the tall, rail thin fellow the moment the door cracked.
“To what do I owe the pleasure Mr. Seth?”
“Get dressed, take this, and follow me.”
Pushy runt, Duncan thought. Then he took the offered weapon, checked the safety, removed then checked the magazine and gently laid the AR style rifle next to him on the bunk. As he laced his boots he quipped in his southern drawl, “What... I don’t deserve a good morning?”
“Morning happened hours ago,” Seth said with a wan smile.
Grabbing his head with one hand and the weapon with the other, Duncan rushed out the door close on Seth’s heels.
When they arrived at the security room it was jam packed with people focusing their attention on the monitors.
“Hey brother... hell of a wakeup call. Most of our security cameras have been tripped. I need you to take these three men with you and go secure the aircraft and keep eyes on the western edge of the compound,” Logan said as he tossed a Motorola to his older brother. “Freq is already set—just push to talk.”
“Copy that... got any aspirins?”
“Can it wait?” Logan asked.
“In for a dime, in for a dollar,” Duncan replied sardonically then mumbled a few expletives; turning around he smiled and greeted the men, all three of whom were armed with AR-15 style rifles and in their late forties or early fifties he guessed. “We’re all equals here... why don’t ya show me the way boys,” he said.
“Be careful old man,” Logan said to Duncan as he exited the room.
Suddenly the Motorola base station crackled to life. “Sampson here, be advised you have thirty plus rotters coming your way... and I can’t be sure but looks like they are hunting two men.”
“Copy that. Stay put—Lev, Chief, and Seth are headed your way... Logan out,” he said.
“Roger that,” Sampson answered.
“You still OK out there Gus?” Logan queried.
“Gus here... I spotted only one rotter moving from the northeast to the east.”
“Did it have only one arm?”
“Yes sir.”
“Hold tight for now, you’ve got four men coming your way, Ed, Carter, Phillip and my brother Duncan. They’re securing the aircraft.”
“Roger that,” Gus replied.
***
Lev, Chief and Seth struck out on a course that would have them flanking Sampson’s hide.
Duncan watched Ed and Phillip exit ahead of him. Ed, who was heavyset and balding, took ten steps to the left and went to one knee. Phillip, rail thin and with a swarthy complexion, took a knee on the right. Both men looked alert, keeping their heads on a swivel with rifles at the ready.
Good job, Logan, Duncan thought to himself. Someone’s taking security seriously. He sniffed the air—no carrion—yet. The door closed behind him with a soft thud. Carter secured the locks then replaced the camouflage netting.
“This way,” Carter said as he trotted towards the green meadow which was barely visible through the trees.
The sun’s rays infiltrating the branches overhead were like miniature branding irons to Duncan’s optic nerves. At that moment, sorely missing his sunglasses, he cursed the God of hangovers—if there even was such a being.
He searched for his shades in the pockets of his ACUs which seemed to him like the cup holders in a minivan—plentiful and poorly placed. He came up empty. Resenting the brutal orb above, he followed behind Phillip as the four of them crossed the clearing towards the far tree line.
***
Jamie stopped quickly, brought a closed fist to head level, and glanced over her shoulder to evaluate her newest student.
Standing stock still and nearly invisible in her ghillie suit, Jordan had read the hand signal correctly.
Flashing thumbs up Jamie melted back into the forest, picking her way north while trying to demonstrate proper stealthy movement.
Watching her own boots a little too closely, Jordan nearly collided with Jamie who held a closed fist in the air. Jordan stopped at once; then she heard the soft exhaust notes and the thrumming tires passing on the road to their right.
“Let’s get back,” Jamie whispered. She pulled out her radio and called the compound. “This is Jamie... I just heard multiple vehicles pass by our position heading south on SR-39.”
Logan answered and said, “Where are you?”
“We’re south of the compound. A few hundred yards from the hunting cabin,” she said, alluding to the scene of a violent shootout she had been involved in a few days ago.
“Is Jordan with you?”
“Yes,” Jamie replied.
Silence.
“Why... is that a problem?”
“We’ve got at least two dozen rotters inside the fence. I don’t want you to get bit or shot by one of our own so it’s probably best if you two find a place to hole up for a while... OK?”
“Sure. Then we’ll circle around and I’ll show Jordan the emergency hatch,” Jamie said in a low voice.
“Please be careful out there,” Logan said softly.
“That’s sweet, Logan. See you soon.”
Jordan tugged on one of the burlap strands on Jamie’s ghillie. “I think he likes you,” she whispered.
Jamie smiled. “I know. He thinks he’s in stealth mode.” She turned the volume down and stowed the radio. “I’ve known since we ran from the cities.”
“And...”
“Now is not the time, but maybe when this Omega stuff is sorted.” Jamie slung her rifle and drew her semi-auto pistol, checked the chamber and pushed ahead, picking her way through the ankle grabbing creepers.
***
Chief sniffed the air then motioned the three-man patrol forward—Seth in the middle—Lev watching their six.
Seth had only taken a few steps forward, trying to keep an eye on Chief’s hand signals, when the hundred and twenty-some-odd-pounds of stinking flesh caught him blind side.
Grunting something unintelligible, the emaciated man picked himself up from the ground, naked and shivering—seemingly pleading for help with his eyes.
Seth jumped to his feet, training his rifle on the pathetic sight whose arms were zip cuffed behind him with a generous portion of silver duct tape stretching from ear to ear.
“Seth... what the hell are you waiting for? Rip it off already,” Lev chided the younger man.
“What if he has a mustache?”
“That’s the least of his worries,” said Chief. “He has many bites on his back.”
The man’s eyes bulged and he struggled to stand.
“Seth. Do it.”
“OK. OK,” Seth answered and gripped a corner of the tape.
Sweating profusely, violent tremors wracking his body, the man’s eyes clenched shut.
With a quick tug Seth removed the tape.
“Aaaaghh,” cried the man.
“He had a ‘stache—” Chief observed.
Lev pulled his Beretta, took a step back, and started peppering the man rapid-fire with questions. “Who were you running from?”
The man stammered then answered meekly, “Them... the monsters.”
“Are you alone?”
“No...” the man sagged to his knees. “They got my friend Alan back there a ways,” he added, gesturing towards the woods with his head.
“Yes... ” The man started to cry.
Seth, dancing from foot to foot, asked nervously. “Want me to cut him loose?”
“Can’t chance it.” Then gesturing with his pistol Lev asked, “You didn’t say who did this to you?”
“I have no idea... we were ambushed outside of Logan last night. They took our van… oh man. Our food and our gun. Everything we had was inside that van.”
Chief interjected. “You didn’t see anything?”
The man shook his head vigorously. “No, they pointed flashlights in our eyes and then put a hood over my head.”
“How far back is your friend?” Lev asked.
“A hundred feet... I don’t know.”
“Get up,” Lev said.
The man struggled but finally got to his feet. As the other two men watched Lev led the man into the woods.
Thirty seconds later, a grim look on his face, Lev returned.
“This way,” Chief said, “Watch your spacing... the rotters are close.”
***
Sampson had been ready for a shift change even before his started. Growing weary of the tree stand, he decided he’d take a quick recon of the road. See if he could find the breach in the fence. Maybe repair it and feel a little more useful.
He descended to the forest floor, pistol in hand, and slid into the dense undergrowth. The going was as tough as it had sounded when the rotters were ascending the hill. He noticed that every branch that slapped him left traces of blood and fluids on his fatigues. After much more work than it was worth he was standing beside the road at the bottom of the hill. He inspected the ruined barbed wire fence. All three strands had been neatly clipped near the gnarled wooden post, leaving Logan’s property open to man and rotter alike.
Pressed firmly into the road’s soft shoulder, the pair of tire tracks suggested a vehicle had stopped here recently.
He holstered his pistol and stood with his hands resting on his hips, scanning the stretch of blacktop in either direction.
Nothing.
“Someone set us up,” he said aloud. “And they want us dead.”
The two-way radio warbled, and then Logan’s voice emanated from his pocket. “We need everyone back to the clearing now. There are rotters everywhere.”
He popped the radio in his pocket then pivoted about to leap across the culvert.
Staggering down the hill, a barely perceptible hiss escaping its parted jaws, the one-armed first turn had built up a head of steam.
The zombie lurched between the fence posts; its forehead clipped Sampson on the temple, knocking him to the blacktop where he lay on his back in a daze, watching black tracers dart about the cerulean sky.
After falling into the ditch the zombie rolled onto its distended stomach and immediately began a one-armed breast stroke, clawing its way towards the meat.
Chapter 18
Outbreak - Day 11
Schriever AFB
Colorado Springs, Colorado
Motor Pool
Hurry up and wait had finally taken on a real meaning for Brook. She hadn’t fully grasped what Cade had meant when he used the term to voice his displeasure at the Army’s lack of expediency in just about everything it did. Then, finally, after what seemed like an eternity sitting and sweltering inside the truck in full battle rattle, Brook heard the words she had been anticipating. The Motorola crackled and a voice informed the convoy they would all be “Oscar Mike in five.”
On the move, she thought. “Five minutes Wilson. Better start warming up your vocal chords.”
Then as soon as the U-Haul started creeping forward, in an ominous tone Brook said one word, “Pug,” then glared at Wilson.
As Wilson recounted his flight from Denver (leaving out all of the driving mishaps as well as Operation Arm Removal) Brook listened minimally, dividing her attention between the Zs pressing in on the fence and the eleven-vehicle convoy spooling out ahead of them. Wilson had Brook’s undivided attention only when he came to the part of his story when he and the other survivors first crossed paths with Pug.
The second that Wilson finished his story Brook began the inquisition. “What is Ted’s last name?”
“I couldn’t tell you. Sasha and I only met Ted and his partner William after the dead started eating peeps.”
“Did your psychiatrist neighbor Ted interact with Pug?”
Wilson mulled over the question before answering. “Some words went back and forth between those two—most of the interactions were not positive.”
Seemingly on the verge of an epiphany, Brook pumped Wilson for more information. “Did Pug seem threatening or homicidal to Ted and William—or to you and your sis?”
“The dude was creepy and forward—but not threatening or homicidal—not to us. The way I see it he singlehandedly saved our collective butts,” Wilson proffered. He hadn’t wanted to give Pug any extra accolades but if the facts were what the lady wanted—then that’s what she was going to get.
“If I heard you correctly, you said that when Pug came on the scene he seemed totally coherent. He was in control of all of his faculties, engaged multiple Zs unflinchingly, and then he introduced himself as Francis before he told you all that he wanted to be called Pug.”
With a bewildered look Wilson asked, “Why do you want to know so much about the dude?”
“My husband told me that Pug had something to do with the fire.” She paused for a beat and took a deep breath. “The fire in which William and numerous others perished. I’m sorry... but I can’t tell you anymore,” Brook replied forcefully.
Wilson tried to pry further but his words were snuffed by Brook’s icy glare.
The convoy began to slow as they neared the front gates. But Wilson’s eyes were not on the road; he continued staring at Brook while trying to fully comprehend how a person of her stature—a woman no less—could intimidate him so. Sensing the Dakota truck about to hit the U-Haul in front of them, Brook reached for the grab handle and shouted, “Hit your brakes!”
“Shit!” exclaimed Wilson as his Louisville Slugger, half a dozen bottles of water and their lunch, which happened to be MREs, shot off the bench seat and landed on the floorboards near their feet.
Brook glanced disdainfully at the poor excuse for a driver, then directed her gaze forward at the orange and silver rollup staring her straight in the face. “Almost ate their lunch, Wilson. Are you sure you weren’t misrepresenting your behind-the-wheel prowess to Colonel Shrill?”
“Positive,” Wilson lied. Then he asked, “Why are we stopped?”
“The dead gather at the gates. Most of the walkers stay in downtown Springs but a good number of them straggle in either from the city, the suburbs, or the surrounding countryside. Just a few days ago there were hundreds... if not thousands out there,” Brook said as she unknowingly rubbed her shoulder, fondly reminiscing on her time in the guard tower behind the sniper rifle. “We have to wait for the guards to put down the walkers before they open the gates for us.”
“Gotcha,” Wilson said.
Listening to the sporadic bursts of automatic rifle fire, Brook sat in the truck and stewed. Ever since the outbreak and those first unforgettable days when she had been forced to put down her parents she had been a different person. Now she hated being left out of the fight. Don’t worry Brooklyn, she reassured herself, you’ll get your turn soon enough. While the guards cleared out the walkers she used the time to process the key points of Wilson’s story and revisit his first impressions of Pug. She adjusted her helmet so the straps would stop biting into her chin. “Are you sure Pug was grounded? That he wasn’t talking to himself... or speaking to a figment of his imagination?” she asked, breaking the silence.
“His name seemed retarded but he wasn’t. He wasn’t crazy either. Trust me... I worked fast food in South Denver. I know retarded. And I know crazy.”
Wilson’s final statement changed Brook’s hunch into a solidly handica
pped certainty. She snatched up the Motorola. “This is Brook Grayson in the Dakota truck. I need to speak to General Gaines—now!”
“Wait one,” the monotone male voice on the other end instructed.
Brook said nothing.
Who in the heck is this lady, Wilson thought as Brook’s stature grew to giant size in the impressionable twenty-year-old’s mind.
The Motorola spewed an irritated voice. “Brook Grayson... how in the heck did you weasel your way along for the ride this time?”
“That’s not important right now General,” replied Brook firmly, her tone with the general making Wilson flinch.
In the lead vehicle Gaines massaged his temples as he watched his men drag the leaking zombie bodies from the roadway. “You sure are a burr under my blanket, Brook. You should feel blessed that Captain Grayson holds you in such high regard,” he said, tongue in cheek. “What can I do for you ma’am? And make it quick because we are about to leave the Green Zone and enter Indian Country.”
“I need you to get ahold of Shrill or Nash. Have one of them locate the civilian psychiatrist named Ted who entered the base and served his quarantine at the same time as Pug. If this guy Ted has the credentials, he needs to do an evaluation of Pug... provide you with a clear before and after report. I have a hunch the murderer was sent here with a role to play and then for some reason or another he went off of his meds somewhere along the way—”
Gaines cut her short. “Brook, Brook—take a deep breath.”
At once Brook became cognizant that Wilson, who had been able to hear the entire conversation, was looking at her with one arched brow and his head cocked aside. Then he mouthed the words “murderer” and “sent here” and a look of bewilderment parked on his face. Still locking eyes with the redhead, Brook took Gaines’ advice and refilled her lungs.
A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 11