Jake's Law: A Zombie Novel

by James Gurley

  “You need more toilet paper. I’ll get some from the hall closet,” she said, as she left the room.

  Jessica glanced at the nearly full roll of paper on the dispenser and smiled. Hawk was giving her a chance. She immediately went to the window and tried to raise it. The paint-sealed window hadn’t been opened for years. She ran the blade of the screwdriver along the edge of the window seal and pushed. It finally popped open with a loud creak. She held her breath but no one came. She was running out of time. Screwdriver in hand, she slipped out the window and into the night.

  She inched down the narrow space between the cliff and the wall of the house, silently praying that Levi didn’t catch her. If she could reach the canyon floor before anyone noticed her escape, she would be free. The rain was coming down hard, drenching her, but would mask her escape. As she neared the end of the house, a figure slipped out the window behind her silhouetted by the bathroom light – Levi. The blade of the knife he held in her hand gleamed in the lightning flashes. With a malicious grin on his face he started toward her. She ran, but he was faster. He caught up with her before she reached the plank bridge, slamming her against the cliff face.

  “No you don’t,” he whispered in her ear. Water from his Stetson poured over her face. He pressed the tip of the knife into her right cheek until it broke the skin.

  She swung the screwdriver at him, grazing his side. He winced, knocked the screwdriver from her grasp, and kneed her stomach. She doubled over in pain.

  “Close,” he said, “but no cigar.”

  He jerked her to her feet and dragged her back to the house. She was in too much pain to resist. Inside, her gaze fell upon Hawk, lying bleeding on the floor. Her expression was one of disbelief. Levi nudged her with the toe of his boot.

  “The bitch thought I wouldn’t catch on. Toilet paper! I put a new roll on the dispenser this morning. When I confronted her, she lied to me. No one lies to me.”

  “You, you stabbed her,” Jessica said in disbelief and horror.

  “No big loss. I’ve still got you.” He grinned.

  She punched him in the face with all her strength, willing her hatred into the blow. He staggered backwards, almost tripping over Hawk. He recovered quickly, this time pulling his pistol and aiming it at her head. The gun didn’t waver, as she stared into the black abyss of the barrel.

  “Don’t make me kill you,” he snapped. “A bullet will make a nasty mess of your pretty face.”

  She hesitated. A bullet to the head might have been quicker and cleaner than what he had in store for her, but she couldn’t bring herself to, in effect, commit suicide. She had to wait for Jake. Her shoulders drooped in defeat.

  “Come on. It’s time to check on the guards. Blakely should be here soon. I wouldn’t want to miss him.”

  He stepped over Hawk as he would a dying dog, devoting no more attention to her. Jessica felt a twinge of sorrow for her. In the end, she had tried to help if only for her own convoluted reasons. But there was nothing she could do to help Hawk. She had to concentrate on remaining alive until Jake came.

  20

  June 27, 2016 Galiuro Mountains, AZ –

  Jake wasn’t a patient man. He was eager to extract revenge on Levi, but he knew his patience would soon be rewarded. The winds grew steadily stronger from the southwest. The flinty taste of dust was in the air. The unmistakable smell of moisture presaged another monsoonal downpour. The clouds grew heavy and gray, their bottoms sheered by wind. The storm would be preceded by a haboob, a massive dust storm. Dust would provide the perfect cover to infiltrate his ranch. He knew the guards, unable to see more than a few feet in front of them, would seek shelter from the biting dust. Once inside his compound, he would find weapons. If possible, he would free Reed and Jessica. If not, he would kill Levi first.

  Levi’s death would break the other’s spirits, making them easy to deal with. It would not be a one-on-one challenge or a long, drawn out killing. He would sneak into his house and slit the bastard’s throat in his sleep if necessary. Such men deserved no elegant ending. A quick death was efficient and less dangerous.

  The western skies grew dark well before dusk, laden with tons of fine dust, sand, and pea-sized gravel. As the haboob approached, it was a wall of dust five miles wide, its top towering almost a mile into the sky. It would sweep across the Avra Valley from Casa Grande to Marana, engulf Picacho Peak and Eloy, and plunge down the narrow San Pedro River valley at fifty to sixty miles per hour. By the time it reached his ranch, visibility would be near zero. He was taking a foolish risk in attempting to use the dust storm as cover. He would have to hike to Split Rock Canyon and climb the surrounding cliff to approach the ranch from the rear, all with a strong wind blinding him and trying to sweep his feet out from under him with every step he took. He would have to reach his ranch before the monsoon rains. Travel would be impossible during a deluge.

  With reluctance, he abandoned his camp, taking only the rope, his spear, a knife, the machete, and a canteen of water. He doubted anything would remain of the camp after the storm. If he failed and survived, he would be back to square one. He didn’t want to face that challenge again. He had cheated death once. He wasn’t eager to make a second attempt.

  Descending the mountain was a test of wills, his versus the wind. Sudden gusts of wind threatened to rip loose his grip from precarious handholds. His hands and legs were swollen from fluid buildup, and his muscles were stiff and achy. He was weak from a near starvation diet. His blood sugar was low and he had no medicine. The blinding dust made finding the path down the mountain difficult. Once he reached the lower canyons, he was protected from the wind and the going was better for a while, but the San Pedro River valley was a funnel, channeling the wind between the Galiuros and the Catalinas like water flowing from a fire hose. Only his innate sense of direction kept him headed southeast toward the ranch.

  The hike was long, but his anger lent him the strength his body lacked. He ignored the wind and the blinding dust. He ignored the innumerable times he stumbled and fell or slammed his head into or tree limbs. He ignored the pain. He focused his mind on the coming fight and on Levi’s death.

  He knew he was no Superman, no Delta Force super soldier. His army days were long behind him. He was a hunter. His normal prey were deer, mountain goats, and elk; not men. Even as a deputy, the worst he had handled were drunks or domestic brawls, usually a combination of the two. The first attack on Levi’s men had been achieved through surprise and with guns and explosives, not to mention the zombie army. Now, the odds weren’t in his favor. His enemy was well-fed on his food and well-armed. They were in a fortified position and expecting him, and he had a makeshift spear and a homemade machete as weapons.

  If one of the men in the ATV hadn’t coughed to clear his throat of dust, Jake would have stumbled blindly into them. Two men sat in his ATV on the leeward side of a thicket of trees watching the trail along the east side of the river. Only the thick dust had saved him. They were so confident that no one could see that they had become lax in their vigilance, more intent on their comfort than in guarding the road. They passed a bottle of booze back and forth to wash the dust from their mouths. He could go around, sneak past them in the storm, but they had the weapons he needed for any chance of carrying out his plan.

  He waited. Eventually, as he knew they would, one of the men stirred from his seat.

  “I gotta take a piss,” he said, shouting into the wind to be heard.

  “Piss downwind,” the other warned, “Or you’ll fill your boots.”

  The man took a few steps from the jeep and stood facing a large boulder. Jake edged around the boulder, keeping low. A steady stream of urine arced onto the face of the boulder. Jake hesitated. Shooting a man from a distance was one thing. Killing him face-to-face with a knife was another. Then he reminded himself that these men were murderers, had stolen his ranch, and had tried to kill him. Jake’s Law #6 – Bad people deserve bad ends. He let the anger inside rise like water filli
ng a bucket until it overflowed. He raised the machete in the air and stepped around the edge of the boulder.

  The man glanced up in surprise at the shadow suddenly materializing from the dust. He backed up frantically, still urinating. Jake struck savagely before his opponent could react, letting his rage spill out through his arms. He attacked like a madman. The machete separated head from body. Blood sprayed from the ragged wound, mixing with dust and urine, forming clumps of wet dirt that fell to the ground like rain. The body toppled onto the boulder and slid to the ground. He had not made a sound. Jake removed the dead man’s pistol and shoved it into his belt. He would have to eliminate the other guard silently. He couldn’t risk a shot being heard over the roar of the wind.

  As he crossed behind the vehicle and stepped to the driver’s side of the ATV, the driver handed him the bottle without glancing up. “One last slug, Deke. You’ll need it after your piss.”

  He looked up. His eyes widened, as he realized it wasn’t Deke. Jake thrust the tip of the machete into the man’s throat. He gurgled once, reaching in vain for his rifle. Jake slapped down his groping hand and yanked him from the vehicle. By the time Jake was settled in the driver’s seat, dust was beginning to cover both bodies. Soon, they would vanish beneath a layer of dirt, as if they had never existed, the desert erasing them from its memory. Now, he had a rifle, a shotgun, and a pistol to add to his arsenal. He felt considerably better about his chances.

  There was no real sunset because of the storm. Dusk became night with little transition. The sandstorm ended almost as abruptly as it had begun. Large, muddy raindrops fell for a few minutes, splattering the windshield and Jake, and then the rain came down in sheets almost as thick as the dust had been. In the darkness and the blinding rain, he fought to keep the ATV on or as close to the narrow trail as possible, praying he didn’t crash into a boulder or tree or drive off into the river. He didn’t know if Levi had placed more guards around but suspected he would have men on the main road across the river. Levi was a cautious man.

  Jake abandoned the ATV at the foot of Split Rock Canyon and continued on foot. He left his makeshift spear and machete in the vehicle, as well as the rifle to travel light. He kept the shotgun and pistol. Hugging the canyon walls for cover, he crept toward the gate. He knew the placement of the cameras and avoided them. He wanted no warning to reach Levi until he struck. The roar of the falls covered any sound he might have made splashing through puddles or wading through shallow washes. It delighted him that he was using the cover of the storm just as Levi had done when he had taken the ranch from him. It seemed appropriate somehow.

  A single guard stood in front of the gate, looking miserable in the rain with a plastic garbage bag draped over his clothing as an ersatz rain suit. His attention was focused on the inside of the compound, wishing he was dry and drunk with his confederates. He never noticed Jake creeping along the wall; never saw the knife near his throat. He made no sound except a short grunt of surprise, as Jake swiped the blade quickly across his throat. He fell face first to the muddy ground, drowning in his own blood. Jake dragged him to the wash and rolled him in. The body quickly disappeared beneath the churning brown water pouring down the mountain from rain higher up.

  In spite of the storm, there was considerable activity inside the compound. He would not catch them asleep. Men hurried from tent to tent in groups of two or three. Flames danced beneath a large open canopy, a cook fire. Feeding time at the zoo. As he watched, a figure passed in front of the gate patrolling inside the wall. Even if he managed to crawl over the wall through the wire, he would be seen. He would have to use his backdoor.

  A hundred yards back down the canyon, a narrow trail ascended the cliff, a shelf of rock just wide enough for mountain goats and pumas. It was a dangerous, difficult path for a man on a good day. In the rain and wind, it was almost impossible, but it was his only option. He dropped everything he was carrying except his rope, his knife, and the pistol. He regretted the loss of the shotgun, but he would need both hands free for climbing.

  There was one problem. The trail was on the opposite side of the canyon. To reach it, he had to first cross the wash. With it now a raging torrent, there were only two ways to cross it – backtrack several miles or negotiate the narrow twelve-inch wide ledge built into the wall to reinforce the metal grate through which the water poured. He didn’t have time to retrace his route. Someone could discover the missing guards at any moment. He eyed the six-foot long ledge and the wild, raging spillway beneath it with trepidation. He had no choice.

  He hugged the wall trying to will his flesh to meld with stone, as he placed his boot on the ledge and took his first step. The wall shuddered against his body from the force of the water striking it. His fingers sought holds in the narrow crevices of the wall, as his feet inched across the ledge. Water erupted from the narrow opening in a spray, drenching him and licking at his feet. Halfway across, the wall shook violently as something struck it from the other side, a tree or boulder carried by the current, jarring one hand loose. For a death-defying moment, he teetered over the precipice, his weight pulling at the numb fingers of the one hand holding him above the raging surge. His fingers tore at the stones for another hold, finally finding purchase in a small niche between rocks. He hugged the wall for a moment, resting his cheek against the cold wet stone, trying to catch his breath. After the initial effort, the last few steps were anticlimactic, and he once again stood on solid earth.

  He almost missed the trailhead in the pouring rain. He took the first few dozen yards standing, hugging the cliff as he had the wall crossing the ledge. After that, he continued on hands and knees. Muddy water rushed down the path like a sluiceway of a dam, threatening to wash him off the face of the mountain. More than once, it almost succeeded. Chunks of dirt dissolved beneath his hands, and pieces of shattered limestone broke away above him, showering him with falling debris. Each movement dislodged pieces of mountain. He worried that a larger slab of limestone could crush him.

  By the time he had gained two hundred feet in elevation, his arms and legs were burning from the effort. His jeans were ripped and knees were raw and bloody from scrubbing against the abrasive rock. His swollen fingers felt like sausages. Directly below him, the wash was a raging river draining into a small lake created as water piled up in front of the grated exit beneath the wall. He wouldn’t have to worry about drowning if he slipped. The fall would kill him first.

  The roar of Split Canyon Falls was deafening, a series of short ledges ending in a thirty foot cascade of water. It was difficult in the dark, but he finally spotted what he was looking for, an outcropping of rock jutting like a finger just beyond the falls. Beneath it, a narrow ledge, little more than a groove in the cliff, would provide a safe place to rest. Doubling the rope, he tossed the open loop over the finger of rock, praying that the rock could hold his weight, and then swung through the falls to the ledge.

  The rush of icy cold water was a fist trying to hammer him against the rocks and break his grip on the rope. He had thought he was cold before, but the rain had been a sauna compared to the raging waterfall. He did a hard belly-flop onto the ledge, forcing the air from his lungs. He gasped for breath and fought to keep his hands from shaking, as he released one end of the rope.

  With clumsy fingers he tied one end of the rope to a small knob of rock. The rope wasn’t long enough to reach the ground, but he hoped it would get him to the point where the canyon wall sloped outward to meet the desert floor of the canyon. He could scramble down from there. It was too dark to see more than a few feet below him. He dredged his memory trying to recall exactly how far below the ledge the slope began, but it was still a guess. He had no choice. If the rain let up, he would be visible to anyone scanning the rocks.

  He sighed and began climbing down the rope. He slipped several times on the wet rope, burning his hands each time he recovered. When he reached the end of the rope, he braced his back against the cold stone, and released the rope. He fell on
ly a few feet before his feet hit the slope. The wet rock cushioned his descent, but tiny ridges and outcroppings played havoc with his body, slicing into his back and legs. He slid what seemed an eternity before his feet caught on an outcropping that sent him spinning head first into dark space. He expected to meet solid rock, ending his infiltration attempt. Instead, he landed in a pool of water ten feet below.

  That wasn’t so bad, he thought, as he shook himself off like a wet dog, massaging his sore muscles. At least I’m alive. He raced across the canyon floor, using the trees as cover. If he was going to take on a small army, he needed more than a pistol, a chef’s knife, and a bad attitude. He hoped no one had found his buried weapons cache. He had to cross open ground to reach the chicken coop where he had stashed it. As he started across, he spotted a shadow detach from a tree, moving parallel to his path toward the chicken coop. He lost sight of the figure as it darted behind a row of lemon and orange tees. He hurried to reach the chicken coop first. He eyed with dismay the water-filled hole where his crate had been buried. Someone had beaten him to it. His plans were falling apart. At least he could eliminate whoever was following him.

  He lay in wait beside the wall, as the shadowy figure approached. The figure made no attempt to move silently. He splashed through puddles and cursed aloud when he tripped over a fallen branch. His ragged breathing was loud enough to wake the dead. As the mysterious figure slammed into the side of the chicken coop, Jake lunged with his knife.