Dead Team Alpha: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller

by Jake Bible

  “Bobby? How much daylight we have left?” TL Lafferty asks quietly.

  The Team is in the thick of Westminster, moving slowly from building to building along Sheridan Boulevard. Every possible loose item on their bodies is taped down, strapped down, secured. A stray jingle or jangle at the wrong moment could send a horde right at them. The whole point of going from melee weapons to firearms was to put distance between the Zs and the Teams. The best way to do that is not to engage at all.

  “Three hours, tops,” Bobby whispers.

  He holds his hand up and everyone stops. They wait. They listen. He lowers his hand and they move.

  “Plan stays,” TL Lafferty says. “We hump it to Yale Avenue and over to Federal. We’ll hunker down in the Bell Tower on CHU and rendezvous with our new Runner. First light, we work our way over to Bear Valley, clear the Zs and secure the buildings.”

  She looks at her Team and one by one, they nod.

  The march continues, painfully slow to those not used to the careful pace of the Teams. Every step, every head turn, every single blink is carefully thought through. Turn your head too far to the right and you lose sight of your left side. Your Mate may have you covered, but maybe they blink wrong. Then it’s over. So the Team moves with great deliberation.

  Diaz is next to bring the Team to a halt. He closes his fist, then quickly points a finger to the left and then to the right. He gives a wave and starts to back away from the corner of Sheridan and West Florida Ave. The Team all know to find cover. They duck into doorways, squat behind bushes, hide close to the shells of scorched cars.

  Up ahead, quickly filling the intersection is a horde of Zs. Val does a quick estimation and comes up with close to sixty of the things shambling down the road, their eyes pointed west as they trudge along West Florida Avenue.

  Close to five minutes goes by after the horde passes before Diaz gives the sign to move out. The Team gets up to the intersection and looks east. Their hearts climb into their throats.

  “Fuck,” Duster hisses. “Herd.”

  Far down the street, about half a mile, the pavement is covered from sidewalk to sidewalk with Zs. They can’t see the end, just a vast sea of rotted flesh walking slowly towards them.

  “Move,” TL Lafferty says. “We have space.”

  Bobby and Diaz set the pace at a fast jog. They get into a rhythm of sprinting from one end of a block to the other. They check the corners, dash across the open intersection, then sprint to the next one. This pattern is repeated until they hit West Yale Avenue.

  Turning left, the Team comes face to face with the southern edge another herd.

  “Fuck me,” Alastair whispers. “Haven’t seen one this big in a while.”

  “Cut through the neighborhoods?” Bobby asks TL Lafferty.

  “Only way not to bring the herd down on us,” TL Lafferty replies. “Just a couple miles to go. Watch each other. You all know the dangers of cutting through yards.”

  They do. Too many Team Mates have been lost over the years because they didn’t see the toddler Z half buried in a long forgotten sandbox or the undead housewife hiding in the shadows of her once prized greenhouse. The abandoned backyards of suburbia are almost as deadly as a roaming herd if a Mate loses focus.

  South Zurich is their detour route until they get to West Amherst Avenue. It becomes a game of hide and seek as the Team goes from lot to lot, cutting through yards and crossing over decks and patios into the next lot, avoiding the smattering of Zs that stumble along the weed choked pavement of the long dead residential arteries of Denver.

  Loretto Heights Park is in sight when DTA hits a wall. A wall made of undead.

  “What are they doing?” Tiny D asks, her voice barely more audible than the wind.

  Close to two hundred Zs fill the main field of the park, their heads tilted and looking up at a row of fir trees.

  Diaz looks at TL Lafferty, his eyebrows raised, conveying the question, “Do we go around?”

  TL Lafferty shakes her head and nods at the herd. She points at Duster and Clank and then at the fir trees. They nod their understanding and crouch walk their way closer. The Team waits back in the shadows of two hundred-year old oak trees. Their eyes follow every step that Duster and Clank take.

  The herd of Zs takes zero notice of the encroaching Mates. Their attention is solely on the fir trees. Duster stops a couple dozen yards from the Zs and lies down in the tall grass, Clank right behind him. They both take out their binoculars and scan the fir trees, systematically looking up one then down the other, trying to find the source of the Zs’ interest.

  Clank gives an almost imperceptible grunt, sounding just like a Z. Duster glances over at him, gauges the direction he’s looking, and starts searching. About six trees in, halfway up, they see movement. They share a look, hold out their hands, and quickly settle things with Rock, Paper, Scissors.

  Clank glares as his rock loses to Duster’s paper. The man takes a deep breath, secures his M-4 to his back, and stands up. He puts his fingers to his mouth and lets loose with an ear piercing whistle.

  The Zs all turn slowly towards the sound.

  “Hungry, ya cunts?” Clank asks, folding his arms over his chest. “You’re looking at one fine piece of tasty people meat, fuckers.”

  There are loud hisses and snarls and the herd moves towards him. Clank nods, looks down at Duster hiding in the grass, and gives him the finger. Then he takes off running right at the herd. When he’s less than six feet from the front, he turns and sprints as fast as he can down the line. Zs reach out, but their hands fall just inches short of the taunting meal before them.

  Close to ninety percent of the herd takes the bait and follows Clank, leaving about twenty stragglers for Duster to clear out. He gets to a knee, takes aim, and empties his magazine, the quiet cough of his suppressor sounding like farts in the wind. He quickly reloads and drops the last Zs before the rest of DTA come sprinting across the field towards the fir trees. Duster gathers each empty shell, counting the brass casings, before he joins his Team.

  “What do we have?” TL Lafferty asks.

  “A survy,” Duster points. “Looks like they got themselves treed.”

  “How’d they get in here?” Junior asks. “A sentry or Runner would have seen them at some point. Why didn’t the dipshit go to a station and ask for help?”

  “All good questions,” TL Lafferty replies. “And only the survy can answer.” She looks her Team over. “Hawks? I’ve been told you have a way with tree climbing. That true?”

  “Here,” Hawks says in response and hands Alastair her M-4 and pack. “I’m on it.”

  She runs and jumps at the trunk of the giant fir, gripping onto the rough bark, and scurries her way up to the first branch.

  “Jesus,” Tiny D laughs. “Woman knows how to scale a tree.”

  “All in the holds,” Diaz says. “I used to do it as a kid before my hands and feet got too big. You learn to read the bark, find the wedges.”

  “Huh,” Tiny D says. “Don’t like heights so I never tried.”

  Hawks makes it to two branches below the survy and stops. She watches the person hug the trunk and studies the form. Covered in dirt and blood crusted rags, the figure is shaking with fear.

  “Hey,” Hawks says. “What are you doing there? Kinda got yourself stuck, didn’t you?”

  The person shakes even harder and Hawks watches a warm trickle of piss weave its way down the bark. She scoots away from the trunk a little, letting the piss flow past.

  “It’s cool,” Hawks says soothingly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m with Denver Team Alpha. Do you know what the Teams are? We help survies, uh, I mean survivors. Every person counts with us. I’m not here to harm you. I’m here to help get you down so we can keep you safe.”

  There’s no response except for an increase in the shaking and a small sob.

  “Can you look at me, at least?” Hawks asks. “Just show me your face, okay?”

  The person doesn’t
respond.

  “Listen,” Hawks says, “I’m coming up, okay? Just to get a little closer so I can see how badly you’re hurt.”

  “NO!” the person screams.

  A young boy. Hawks can tell in an instant from the voice.

  “Like I said,” Hawks responds. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “NO!” the boy screams. “Stay back!”

  Hawks can hear TL Lafferty hissing from below. The boy’s being too loud and it’ll draw the Zs back.

  “Are you hungry?” Hawks asks. She digs into a pouch on her vest she wears and pulls out a hunk of jerky. “You like jerky? It’s goat, but still good. My mother crushes wild blueberries and puts them in the cure before smoking it. Tastes great.” She takes a nibble. “So good. Want some?”

  Hawks climbs just a little closer and waves the jerky towards the boy.

  Even with the overpowering scent of fir pitch around them, the jerky smell wafts to the boy’s nose and he slowly turns his head and looks at Hawks. She tries not to cry out.

  The boy has no eyes. Instead, only scab rimmed holes are left.

  “Jesus,” she mutters.

  The boy smiles and it sends shivers up Hawks’ spine. “I’m a born Code Monkey. We’re trained to survive. But that does smell good.”

  “A code…monkey?” Hawks asks. “What’s that?”

  The boy’s nose twitches and he tilts his head towards Hawks.

  “Can I have some of that jerky?” the boy asks. “Does smell good, yep.” His stomach rumbles and he frowns.

  “Yeah, sure,” Hawks says. “But how about we get you outta this tree first, okay? Then you can have all the jerky in my pockets and tell me what a code monkey is.”

  “There’s zeds down there,” the boy says, shaking his head. “Too many for just me. Can’t go down there. No way, Jose.”

  “My Team has them cleared out,” Hawks says. “But not for long. There’s a good sized herd in the area so we need to move now. We’re only a quarter mile from a Runner station in the Bell Tower. You’ll be safe there.”

  The boy tilts his head this way and that then nods. “Okay.”

  Hawks reaches out for the boy, but he doesn’t see the hand and instead begins to make his way down the tree on his own. She’s beyond surprised at his agility, especially considering his condition.

  She keeps out of his way, tracking his progress, until he’s down on the ground, his body in a defensive crouch up against the tree.

  “How many?” he asks. His head sweeps back and forth. “Six? No…eight?”

  “Good counting,” Hawks says as she jumps the last couple of feet, landing by his side. “There’s ten of us all together. One drew the Zs away and will meet us back at the Bell Tower.”

  “Hello, son,” TL Lafferty says. “I’m the Team Leader here. What’s your name?”

  “Marshall Rosado, Thirtieth Code Monkey,” the boy says as he stands up, his hand resting back against the tree, his muscles tensed to flee. “I don’t know what a Team Leader is, but you must be in charge.”

  “How old are you?” TL Lafferty asks, her Team silent around her, knowing she has to take lead with any new survies. “You look maybe eight? Nine?”

  “I’m thirteen,” Marshall says. “Just small for my age. That’s what my parents…”

  They wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t.

  “May I?” Bobby asks, as much to TL Lafferty as to Marshall as he approaches slowly and kneels in front of the boy. He starts to reach for the boy’s face then finds himself down on the ground, the boy’s legs wrapped around his neck, squeezing, squeezing.

  “Jesus fuck!” Diaz says as he and Tiny D lunge at the kid.

  Tiny D gets her hands worked between the boy’s legs and Bobby’s throat, while Diaz grabs him under the arms and pulls him back. Diaz spins the kid around and slams his face into the dirt while yanking his arms up behind his back. Junior tosses him some cord and Diaz ties the kid’s wrist together then pulls him to his feet.

  “I don’t give two fucks if you’ve had your eyes plucked out,” Diaz snarls into Marshall’s ear. “But you go after my boy again and I will gut you.”

  “Sorry,” Marshall says. “I…I’m sorry.”

  “Mate Diaz?” TL Lafferty asks. “I think the boy is sincere.” She looks around at the park and frowns. “And we are drawing attention. You get to carry him to the Bell Tower. DTA, let’s move.”

  The Team heads off towards what was once Colorado Heights University. They book it through the park and across South Irving Street, up the barren slope behind the former school, and take cover at the side of the May Bonfils-Stanton Library. Junior sighs as they pass the boarded up windows of the library.

  “We’ll get settled first,” TL Lafferty says, smirking at Junior. “Then you and Alastair get first patrol. Ten minutes in the library, tops. Tops.”

  “Thanks, TL,” Junior grins.

  They duck around the south side of the building and weave between the huge oaks and firs to the former administrative building and the Bell Tower. The sun is just starting to dip below the mountains behind them as TL Lafferty gives three sharp knocks on a thick metal door tucked into an alcove of the red brick building.

  They wait two seconds then she gives three more sharp knocks. There’s two sharp knocks in response. TL Lafferty knocks once more then smacks it hard with the flat of her hand. The sounds of bars being removed, as well as chains being undone, echoes through the door. A weathered face peers out at them as the door is slowly pushed open.

  “Carlyle,” TL Lafferty nods. “Good to see you.”

  “You made good time,” Carlyle says then sees Marshall being held by Diaz. “Even with a distraction it seems. Get your butts in here before we lose the sun.”

  The Team filters through the door, one by one, nodding to the senior Runner. He nods back, and then gives the area a quick scan before he shuts the door behind them.

  “Head on up,” Carlyle says. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Make yourselves at home.”

  In his mid-forties, Carlyle Smithson is as fit as a man can be. Thin build, deeply lined, tanned skin; his arms are ropes of muscle. He takes his time replacing the bars and chains into their various slots and bolts then turns to a set of stairs. He barely breaks a sweat and isn’t even close to out of breath as he takes the steps two at a time all the way to the top, quickly catching up to DTA.

  “Hey!” Carlyle snaps as he sees Tiny D lifting a spoon from a simmering pot off to the corner of the wide room.

  “You said make ourselves at home,” Tiny D grins. “What’s in here? I smell sage, but what’s the meat?”

  “Pocket gopher,” Carlyle says. “Got a den of them down under the commons.”

  “Gopher?” Junior asks. “Ah, give me some of that!”

  “Still cooking,” Carlyle says. “Give it an hour or two more. Softens the meat and tempers the gamey flavor.”

  “I’m hungry,” Marshall says, still gripped by Diaz.

  “You’ll get some food soon, kid,” Diaz says.

  “Can I talk to you, TL?” Val asks, nodding towards the stairwell.

  “Can it wait, Baptiste?” TL Lafferty asks. “I’d like to have a word with Carlyle first, get his report on the area so we know exactly what we’re walking into tomorrow morning. Didn’t like that herd that surprised us.”

  “Herd?” Carlyle asks after stirring the stew. “They’re getting more and more frequent, I tell ya. Your new Runner nearly didn’t make it here.”

  “Yeah, where’s this new Runner?” Diaz asks as he looks out a front window, his eyes scanning the commons below.

  “Up top,” Carlyle says. “Double checking the pyre so it’s ready for night duty.”

  TL Lafferty gives Carlyle an inquisitive look. The man shrugs.

  “He seems to think I can’t maintain a pyre,” Carlyle laughs. “The guy’s a pissy little bitch, but can run like the wind, even when surprised by these pop up herds.”

  “That’s w
hat’s troubling me,” TL Lafferty says. “Not like you Runners to let us get ambushed like that. No warning marks at any of the intersections or on any of the buildings.”

  “Like I said, they’re just popping up,” Carlyle explains. “They are coming and going. It’s impossible to track them. Just when I think one has formed, it splits up and turns back into random groups.”

  “Herds happen,” Marshall says. The Team all looks his way and he shrugs, as if he knows he’s the center of attention.

  Val grips TL Lafferty’s elbow. “Please, TL. Just give me five.”

  TL Lafferty looks at the rest of the Team as they toss their packs onto the ground and begin the process of field stripping and cleaning their weapons. “Fine. Five minutes.”

  They step out of the room and onto the landing overlooking several flights of stairs.

  TL Lafferty looks down into the darkness below and rolls her neck. The cracking echoes up and down the stairwell. She looks back at Val and raises her eyebrows. Val reaches over and closes the door to the room.

  “Don’t cut that kid loose,” Val says. “He’s full of shit.”

  TL Lafferty’s eyebrow raise changes from irritation to legitimate surprise.

  “Not what I was expecting you to say,” she replies. “Go on.”

  “You know I had a brother, right?” Val asks.

  “My condolences,” TL Lafferty nods. “His death was rough on everyone, especially your… Well, you know. Every person counts.”

  “We always remember,” Val responds. “Thank you. But this isn’t about how my brother died. This is about how he lived. He was born blind, probably due to radiation exposure my mother suffered during the shutdown missions of the nuclear reactors south of here.”

  “Yes, yes, there were many unfortunate side effects of those missions,” TL Lafferty says, looking slightly uncomfortable with the conversation. “But all for the greater good.”

  “Cut the propaganda, TL,” Val snaps. “You need to listen to me.” TL Lafferty starts to get angry and respond, but Val cuts her off. “The kid didn’t just have his eyes plucked out. He’s been blind a while.”

  “You did see the scabs, right? Those are only days old,” TL Lafferty says. “I am seriously reconsidering your fit in this Team, Baptiste.”