Omega Days (Book 5): The Feral Road

by John L. Campbell

  “No keys,” Bracco called. They’d expected and discussed this. The keys would most likely be inside the shed somewhere, hanging on a hook. Hopefully the plow was fully fueled, but they’d have no way of knowing until they turned it on. Cribbs wasn’t sure what they’d do if it was empty. Come up with a plan-B in a hurry.

  The rolling doors, large enough to permit a standard-sized dump truck plow to roll in or out of the shed, were secured with a length of heavy chain run through the handles, a large padlock joining the links. Cribbs pulled a frag grenade, set it where the ends of the chain met the padlock and pulled the pin.

  “Frag out,” he warned, and dove to the side.

  Seconds later a blast sent hot metal fragments flying, and the two men converged on the doors again. The chain and handles were gone, a basketball-sized hole now blown in the sheet metal where they’d been. Bracco gripped one side and Cribbs the other, each man hauling back in opposite directions, forcing the heavy doors down their tracks, fighting against the snow drifts that had built up against the sides of the building.

  They forced a three-foot-wide gap, revealing a charcoal gloom inside. Cribbs switched on a flashlight and went in. Corporal Bracco swept his M4 across the immediate area behind them, saw no zombies – at least not within a hundred feet – and followed him in.

  Through her scope, Skye watched as the two small figures disappeared into the plow shed. They were on their own now, beyond her protection. She tracked right, hunting for targets, and found a small knot of corpses angling in toward the barn. HUFF…HUFF…HUFF…

  CLICK.

  Three more drifters went down, but she had fired the last of the SCAR’s ammunition. Behind her came the muffled blasts of Rooker’s third and fourth thrown grenades, followed by more rifle fire. She dropped the battle rifle on the roof and picked up her M4 leaning nearby. Time to back up Rooker and whatever he was facing.

  PFC Rooker watched as his grenades created black and white explosions in the deep snow below, flinging a few bodies aside but doing little else. He fired down at the dead, trying to stay calm as he hunted heads among the mass piling up against the rear wall of the hotel, more streaming in from the side street. It was extremely close range for the M4, he was elevated, and Rangers – even the youngest ones – were exceptional marksmen. But he could do the math. He would run out of ammo long before he ran out of targets.

  A nightmare appeared out in the storm, a red monstrosity with an elongated head bristling with quills, massive and powerful. It moved fast, rushing through the horde on the side street, weaving and knocking them aside.

  Rooker fired at it, rapidly triggering the M4, sending rounds into the horde and a few into this new monster, but none into the creature’s head. Then it was gone, out of sight down the side of the hotel.

  Rooker trembled as he loaded a new magazine. The swagger of immortality fed by his youth and membership in an elite military unit crumbled, and he realized that he was going to die, and that it was going to be today.

  It wore the tattered remains of a sheriff’s deputy uniform, its belly eviscerated by an encounter with a mountain lion and the frozen remains of blackened organs visible within the horrid wound. Using the additional strength granted by this mutated form, Snapper scaled the bricks, window ledges and drain pipes of the hotel’s back wall, propelling itself upward. The weight and force of the climb tore dead flesh from its fingertips, and it was bone that dug into the bricks as it climbed.

  There was prey above, and after all the stalking and waiting, the Hobgoblin would be allowed to destroy it at last.

  THIRTY

  Daylight, or at least as bright as it was likely to get. The storm swept down from Donner Pass, slamming into the travel center and the bus where a lone woman had kept vigil through the pre-dawn hours. The wind shook the big vehicle, driving snow into drifts against its sides. Beyond the windows was a wall of blowing white, where visibility had been reduced to twenty or thirty feet.

  The interior of the bus was now as cold as a tomb.

  No heat. Not ever again. Pepper stood in the living area, bundled now in both CHP mock turtles and her Carhartt coat, gloved hands clutching the shotgun. She was trembling, her breath ghostly. The solar panels were gone, would never again provide power to the silent generator.

  It’s only going to get colder.

  Snow swirled down through the open roof hatch she’d been watching all night. There had been no sign of whatever was on the roof, if it was even still up there. Pepper had heard no more sounds of its movement, but she wasn’t ready to assume it was gone. She was so tired. The adrenalin and terror of the nighttime attack was gone now, leaving her drained and wanting to sleep. She didn’t dare; the bus was open now, no longer safe because dead things didn’t need to sleep.

  The fact that her sanctuary was vulnerable made her want to cry. As much as she’d come to hate the tour bus, thinking of it as a prison, she realized it had become her home, an island of safety in a world that wanted her to join the legions of the dead. And now it was over. No more safety. No more heat to keep her alive.

  No more hope.

  A face appeared at the hatch in the hallway, long black hair hanging about a crimson mask of violence and hate.

  Fiddler.

  Pepper cried out and brought up the shotgun, triggering a blast. The face darted away as buckshot blew a new hole through the fiberglass and metal ceiling two feet in front of the opening. Thumping across the roof followed, then nothing.

  The country music star pumped a new shell into the chamber – she’d reloaded in the night and now carried a pocket full of fresh rounds – and quickly fed in a replacement shell for the one she’d just fired. Aiming. Watching. Listening.

  Nothing.

  She thought about the automatic handgun she’d tucked into her front waistband, one of the pistols taken from the undead highway patrolmen. She’d toyed with it in the earliest hours, when the first hint of daylight provided some illumination, and was pretty certain she’d figured it out. There had always been guns in the Davis household, she’d grown up with them but had little experience with pistols. She’d learned the shotgun only because it was a childhood expectation (she much preferred the microphone or guitar) but handguns hadn’t interested her.

  Revolvers were simple – any fool can figure them out, Daddy used to say – but automatics were another matter. It took a while to understand the mechanics of releasing or inserting a new magazine, how to chamber a round, and the operation of the safety. She felt like the fool her daddy had referred-to when it came to the tiny lever with only two positions; one showed a red dot, the other covered it. Pepper couldn’t remember if seeing the red dot meant stop, as in the weapon wouldn’t fire, or if it meant danger, as in the weapon was ready to go.

  She’d answered the question an hour ago, accidentally putting a bullet into a kitchen cabinet, making her cry out in surprise and almost drop the pistol. Red meant ready to fire, and she wouldn’t forget. The knowledge was worth the price of a bullet, and at this point what was one more hole in the bus?

  Should she switch the shotgun for the handgun? She’d be able to handle it more quickly, be able to put it on target faster than the awkward shotgun. But pistols required more accuracy than a blast of steel pellets. Daddy had shown her how to extend her arm, lock the elbow, support her grip with her other hand; she’d blazed away and hit nothing but dirt and air. Pistols took skill; shotguns were more forgiving…to the shooter, anyway.

  Pepper pulled the handgun from her waist and set it on the table where it would be handy. She’d hang onto the twelve-gauge for now. Awkward or not, its weight and destructive firepower was reassuring, and she needed all the confidence she could get now.

  Thump. Thump-thump…thump…

  Fiddler was moving around up there, and Pepper tensed, aiming her weapon at the opening once more. She couldn’t even speculate about what had happened to her former band member to create what she’d seen at the roof hatch, but the dead woman was
certainly different. She was thinking, smart enough not to fully expose herself to Pepper’s weapons, clever enough to know that destroying the solar panels put her prey at a disadvantage. And she’d used a length of steel to smash open the roof hatch. A tool. Pepper couldn’t get that out of her head.

  Fiddler was indeed different, a new breed of monster. As if the walking dead weren’t monster enough.

  Pepper had never wanted to kill something so badly.

  She was thirsty, but the snow she’d melted earlier was frozen in its plastic container on a kitchen counter. She knew she should eat, but she was afraid to stop watching the hatch now that the monster had revealed it was still up there.

  An unearthly scream cut through the storm, and Pepper cringed. It came again, a savage sound that triggered primal fears, utterly lacking in mercy or the ability to be reasoned-with. Pepper braced herself to fire as she heard more thumping.

  Nothing appeared at the roof hatch, but a moment later, out of the corner of her eye, she saw something bounding through the snow beside the bus, moving rapidly from the rear toward the front. Pepper spun to see Fiddler quickly move out of sight. Then there was the sound of shattering glass, fragments scattering across the driver’s compartment as a length of steel smashed through the side window. Another blow, more broken glass, and Pepper rushed forward.

  Wind blew in through a hole about the size of a person’s head. Then Fiddler raced across the big front windows at the nose of the bus.

  If only her driver hadn’t gone and gotten himself killed – and subsequently wandered off with the bus keys in his pocket - she could have driven out months ago. Now she wished she could simply drive over the creature outside. Pepper almost fired, but didn’t want to blow a hole in the windshield. Fiddler disappeared again, out of view down the right side this time. Fists pounded at the metal along its length, and another animal howl came from outside.

  Testing, or tormenting?

  “Come on, then!” Pepper screamed, turning slowly in the living area, tracking the noise with the barrel of the shotgun. Tears sprang into her eyes. “Get it over with!”

  Another hungry shriek was all the reply she got.

  THIRTY-ONE

  The dead flowed around the hotel, pressing against the walls at the front, side and rear of the building, packed twenty deep with more coming in from the streets and alleys behind them, following the moans of their brethren. Pale and cold, they stared with unblinking white and blue eyes, heedless to the wind and driving snow, teeth gnashing reflexively. They were the residents of Truckee, their ranks swelled by travelers and refugees who had come here for sanctuary, as well as the soldiers and emergency personnel who had come to help. All changed by the virus now, all ravenous.

  Mindless was not entirely the correct descriptor, but as alien as they were, the walking dead were simple creatures, and it had been an easy task for the Alpha and the other Hobgoblins to herd them. Rough pushing and screeches got them moving, and soon individuals turned into groups, a mob and eventually the horde that now filled the snowy streets of Old Truckee. Forward movement bred followers.

  Now the massive, red Alpha moved quickly back and forth behind the horde, forcing them against the building where their natural aggressiveness and the scent of nearby live prey would do the rest. They existed to serve the Alpha, to soak up the damage caused by the prey’s weapons before she moved in to destroy.

  The dead had indeed caught the scent, and they threw themselves against the doors at the front of the hotel, clawing their way through snow drifts to reach the windows.

  From all sides of the building came the sounds of breaking glass.

  Skye heard a grunt and a thud, and turned away from the raised façade to see Rooker across the roof by the back edge. He was face-down in the snow, a disemboweled Hobgoblin in some kind of uniform pinning him, gripping the sides of the young soldier’s head and forcing it up and back.

  Rooker shrieked, “Skye, get off the roof!” Then his voice climbed to a high-pitched, inhuman squeal. There was a SNAP she could hear at this distance, followed by a dull crack and a wet burst as the creature broke the boy’s neck and crushed his head at the same time.

  In a moment of paralysis, Skye flashed on another rooftop, another young soldier yelling for her to get off the roof! Then the spell was broken as the Hobgoblin let out a wildcat scream and leaped off the body, bounding across the rooftop toward her, kicking up snow.

  Skye jerked up the M4, the clumsy snowmobile mitten on her enlarged left hand making her fumble for a hold on the front grip. She shook the mitten free and grabbed again as the Hobgoblin charged. The M4 came up, she thumbed the selector switch and then tried to bring the combat sight to bear, but the creature was close and started jinking left and right. A three-round burst puffed in the snow behind it.

  Thirty feet.

  She snapped the muzzle left, firing again as it dodged. Hot lead tore into the creature’s chest and shoulder as it leaped away, still closing.

  Twenty feet.

  Heart racing, Skye switched to full-auto and sprayed a long burst of 5.56mm at the leaping figure until the magazine was empty. Bullets thudded into its body, hit the roof, grazed its head and sheared off a piece of its jaw. The Hobgoblin let out a roar, reaching her with arms held wide.

  Her altered senses saw it all with a surgical clarity, and an instinct and speed she didn’t know she possessed took over; she was intensely aware of the heatless gray figure, the black specks of snow slashing across an alabaster background, the wild scent of her attacker that imprinted the word threat on her brain. Time seemed to slow as Skye released her hold on the rifle, ducking as the creature launched. Her left hand flashed up.

  The talon of Skye’s left index finger sank into the Hobgoblin’s eye, puncturing it and hooking through the bone of the orbital socket as her thumb talon plunged deep into its left ear. Snapper’s forward movement combined with the force of Skye’s grip carried them both to the roof in an explosion of snow, the creature howling its fury.

  The muscles of Skye’s bicep and forearm bulged as her alien hand pinned the Hobgoblin’s head to the roof, and she found herself swinging over to straddle its back, just as it had done with Rooker. It thrashed beneath her, shrieking and flailing its arms, trying to flip her off, but she would not release.

  Baring her teeth, Skye Dennison yanked the .357 revolver from the holster clipped to her combat webbing, jammed the barrel against the back of the Hobgoblin’s skull, and pulled the trigger.

  A blast of brains and bone fragments exploded across the snow, and the creature went limp.

  A drumbeat that turned out to be her heart was pounding in her ears and she was breathing fast, the primal rage and unexpected instinct draining away as quickly as it had come. She’d never actually killed one of them, she realized. The creature in Chico and then the one on the Amtrak train had both been brought down by the Rangers. She pulled her talons free and stared at the wet, black hooks, tools designed by nature just for this sort of work.

  The sound of breaking glass from the street below shook her back into the present.

  Sallinger.

  Skye started running for the rooftop door.

  Captain Lee Sallinger was about to die.

  He knew it, and the dead pouring into the lobby proved it. The full magazine in his nine-millimeter sidearm and the spare in his chest pocket simply wouldn’t be enough to save him. At least he’d take some with him, saving a bullet for himself. He’d be damned if he would let himself turn into one of these things and pose an added threat to whatever was left of his squad.

  And now, at best, that was down to Cribbs and Bracco, though he suspected he was the last one alive. Through the quiet of the hotel, just before the dead started smashing their way in, he’d heard the muffled CRUMP of fragmentation grenades detonating out back, and the rising tempo of assault rifle fire. It had slowed, and then there was a final burst of full-auto before only the single boom of Skye’s .357.

  Those
sounds meant that the dead had somehow gotten onto the roof, and Skye had been savaged. That last shot was the sniper’s choice of self-destruction over being devoured alive. It was a choice Sallinger would soon be making for himself.

  He raised the nine-millimeter and fired at a corpse scrambling through a shattered window beside the front doors, clipping the side of its head but not putting it down. A second shot punched harmlessly through its throat.

  Well shit, this won’t take long.

  His third shot popped brain matter out the back of its head, and it sagged to the hardwood floor. Another replaced it in the window at once. He swung the pistol right, over the back of the sofa where his broken leg had trapped him, aiming at a creature across the lobby that had already gotten inside and was finding its feet. This time he dropped it with his first shot.

  Big deal.

  The lobby was no longer dark and gloomy, and was now well-lit by the stormy daylight coming in through all six windows; two flanking the doors and four down the street-side wall. The dead had clawed their way through the snow drifts and smashed the windows as soon as they uncovered them. Now every opening was filled by a snarling corpse dragging itself over shards of broken glass and splintered wooden frames. A few were already inside, angling in toward him. The Ranger swung the pistol left and right, hitting twice, missing, missing again and then hitting. He kept firing, dropping several freaks within reaching distance of the couch, making others sag limply over windowsills, only to have their bodies dragged out of the way by more ghouls. It was only a matter of time before they got around behind him where he couldn’t defend himself.

  The gunfire and the scent of prey worked them into a frenzy, and they moved a little faster as their moans climbed in volume. Their wet stench choked the big room, making the Ranger gag. He ejected the spent magazine and slapped in his last fifteen rounds, pulling back the slide.