Dead Team Alpha (Book 2): The Stronghold

by Jake Bible

  Dead Team Alpha 2

  The Stronghold

  Jake Bible

  Copyright 2015 by Jake Bible

  Chapter One: There Was An Old Woman…

  The body hangs like a limp bundle of sticks and rags, unaffected by the intense cold and wind that comes whipping down off the Rockies. The four people carrying the limp body, a man and three women, move cautiously through the debris, their feet expertly avoiding the stray hunks of metal and junk that litter what was once an airstrip of the former Peterson Air Force Base.

  Now the tarmac is nothing but dead weeds and stunted trees that are almost finished dropping their autumn leaves. The dry vegetation pushes up through the asphalt, cracking the blacktop into hundreds of ankle-breaking pieces.

  The four move on, picking their way around hunks of old and rusted aircraft that were close to being decommissioned before Z-Day hit.

  Z-Day—when the dead decided they no longer wanted to be dead and that walking the Earth would be a much better option. No explanation, no warning. Corpses began to dig themselves out of graves, sit up in morgues, fight their way out of body bags and caskets. And they were hungry. Attacking the living and feasting off their flesh, the undead, the zombies, the Zs, multiplied quickly as the victims themselves turned into monsters and became part of the undead ranks.

  That was a Sunday.

  By Monday evening, everything was lost and those still alive began their never-ending fight to survive.

  Four people, descendants of some of those survivors, carry the human bundle of sticks around a large piece of a jet engine and then stop, their heads turning this way and that, back and forth as if they are scanning the area with some unknown sense. Two of them turn and look over their shoulders, back at the broken tarmac and the long shadows coming off the towering pines and firs that ring the old base, their roots able to find plenty of purchase and nutrients. The tall trees almost mock the scraggly ones that struggle against the inhospitable remains of an asphalt world.

  But the two people aren’t looking at the scraggly trees, the broken tarmac, the tall trees outside the fence line, or anything at all. Looking, seeing, watching with their eyes is not an option. Only empty sockets stare out at the landscape, the holes rimmed with long scars, both old and fresh.

  The two others turn their heads, eyeless as well, and join their comrades in an impossible study of the area. It has been said that when one sense is lost, the others compensate. For these four people, the compensations have increased exponentially.

  Scents from a thousand sources waft on the cold wind and the four take deep breaths, their brains processing the data instantly. Sounds from just as many sources reach their ears, separating and compressing into different aural streams, each with its own stream of information. One of the women opens her mouth and tastes the slight mist the wind brings, a portent of a late autumn storm to come. A second woman rolls her head on her neck, letting the air currents drift across her skin.

  “What do we have?” the man asks. “Sheila?”

  “Unsure,” Sheila, the tasting woman, replies. “Vicky?”

  “Possible snow,” Vicky, the air currents woman, responds. “Missy?”

  The third woman, Missy, takes another deep breath through her nose. She hesitates and takes a third breath then shakes her head.

  “I don’t smell snow, but I trust Vicky,” Missy replies. “Confusing scents. A lot of elk urine. Must have been a herd come by recently. That’s all I have. Jack?”

  “I don’t remember hearing or feeling a herd anywhere in the area,” Jack says. “But they don’t tend to stay put, do they? Too many undead around.”

  Jack tilts his head as if looking down at the body the four carry. It is a woman, head shorn, face crisscrossed with scars and age lines, dressed in a tattered long coat made of deer hide with matching pants. Her shirt is a crude weave of hemp and wool. The boots on her feet are new, however, or new as can be when boots haven’t been mass produced in a hundred years. Black with thick soles and obviously reinforced toes, the boots are worth almost as much as the woman.

  But considering how much of a fight the woman put up when found, despite her emaciated appearance, Jack believes the information the woman can provide is the true treasure. He knows Skye will be pleased to have such a survivor in her presence. With the increase in Z activity, and their undead numbers seeming to grow day after day, a little intel from an outside source is almost better than food.

  Especially with their plan almost ready to launch.

  “Something funny?” Vicky asks.

  “What? Yes, I made a mental pun,” Jack answers. “Just thinking about how the plan is almost ready to launch.”

  The other three chuckle with him.

  “The day of the Code Monkeys is almost at hand,” Missy says. “We will bring justice to this horrid place. Wipe the unworthy from the landscape.”

  “Wipe all from the landscape,” Vicky says.

  “An honor to die for such a cause,” Sheila sighs. “Such an honor.”

  The woman in their hands moans and Jack frowns. “She shouldn’t wake up for hours. This one heals fast.”

  “Explains how she has survived alone out in the wasteland,” Missy says. “I do smell a strong life force about her. She will not leave this plane without some violent help.”

  “That will be up to Skye to decide,” Jack says. “For now, we deliver this woman and let Skye sort out her worth and fate.”

  The four nod as one and turn back to their task of carrying the unconscious woman across the base. They reach a small hut, barely half the size of a normal sized Quonset building, and set the woman down on the ground while three of them lift a metal hatch hidden beneath a pile of refuse. Once the hatch is open, Vicky and Missy descend part way then reach up for the woman as Jack and Sheila ease her down to them.

  The woman lowered below and the task done, Jack climbs down and grips the hatch with a gloved hand. His eyeless head turns back and forth over and over before he grunts then drops inside, the hatch clanging loudly behind him followed by the sound of heavy locks thunking into place.

  The pile of refuse shifts back over the hatch, a series of pulleys and platforms expertly placed on and around the hatch so that the illusion of a trash heap is all that a casual observer will see.

  The cold wind blows and the late autumn sun begins to set behind the Rocky Mountains, casting the world in an orange glow that resembles fire. Or Hell. Depending on one’s perspective.

  ***

  Beneath the tall firs and pines, covered by various branches, leaves, twigs, and dried weeds, two figures slowly crawl backwards on their elbows and tips of their boots, their bellies barely an inch off the ground. The branches, leaves, twigs, and dried weeds move with them, glued to their backs in arrangements of perfect camouflage.

  Blending into the surroundings is a key to survival in a wasteland populated by Zs, crazies, cults, cannibals, and various other factions fighting for just one more day of life.

  Never wavering from their slow, low crawl backwards, the two figures leave the protection of the tree line and keep going through the tall yellow grasses of a wide meadow dotted with oaks. Once fully obscured by the three-foot high grass, the two stop and wait. After a minute, they both hear a short whistle. It sounds like a lone bird, but to their ears it is the signal that the coast is clear.

  “Go,” one says to the other.

  The other nods and crouch runs through the meadow to a stand of pines at the far edge. The one left waits until another whistle is heard then gets up and follows quickly. Once in the shadowed safety of the pines, the two figures strip off the branch/leaf/twig-covered ghillie suits to
reveal beige military fatigues underneath. They are each handed gear-laden vests and packs and they quickly put them on as three others clad in military fatigues wait patiently.

  “Damn, you two stink,” Dead Team Alpha Team Leader Cole Wright whispers. Except for the pink scars that crisscross his cheeks and neck, his dark skin blends in with the deepening shadows. He shifts away from the two new arrivals, his wiry muscles moving him silently in the thick underbrush. “Mandatory showers when we return to barracks.”

  “If they let them in through the gates,” DTA Team Mate Dorothy “Tiny D” Peters laughs quietly.

  Tiny D’s hair is in tight black cornrows, stretching into braids that go all the way down her back, fanned out across her pack. Normally the tips would shine from the small, barbed blades that hold the ends of the braids together. But Tiny D has made sure each barb is dulled by mud so as not to give off their position in the pines. But it’s a wash considering the bright white of her teeth as her nearly pitch black face splits into a wide grin.

  “Yeah, some of the elk piss soaked through the ghillie suits,” DTA Team Mate Alastair Swancutt replies. “We may stink, but the piss works.”

  “It was close,” DTA Team Mate Valencia “Val” Baptiste says, taking a cautious whiff of herself. She frowns and looks at the ghillie suit she had just taken off. “I thought they’d sensed us for a second there, but they kept going and disappeared into that hatch of theirs.”

  “Still using just the one entrance?” DTA Team Mate Lyle Diaz asks over his shoulder. He is down on one knee with an M-4 carbine to his shoulder, his full attention on the meadow between DTA and the firs and fence that rim Peterson AFB. “That’s a big risk. Any number of hostiles could see that and try to get in there.”

  “I don’t think they’re too worried,” Val responds.

  She picks up her own M-4 and stands, stretching out tight muscles that were close to cramping from hours of being in one position as she and Alastair surveilled the Code Monkeys’ hideout. Twenty-three, tall, blonde, dark brown eyes, and built like a dancer that’s all muscles and grace, Val starts to roll her head on her neck then stops when Cole gives a slight cough.

  “The way your vertebrae crack, you’ll bring that whole nest of Monkeys down on us,” Cole says, standing as well. In his thirties and only an inch taller than Val, Cole surveys the rest of DTA. “Ready to move?”

  “You know it, TL,” Diaz says as the rest of DTA get to their feet. “But I’m not carrying those.”

  “We got them,” Alastair says. A couple years younger than Cole, Alastair is average height but holds himself like a prize fighter that’s ready to spring from toe to toe at a moment’s notice. His pale skin is wind burnt, making his usually rosy cheeks stand out even more. “But next time you guys get to wear the piss suits.”

  “We’ll Rock, Paper, Scissors for it,” Tiny D says. At her full height, Tiny D is almost the tallest of the Team. She looks down at Alastair and pats his shoulder. “Or we could wrestle.”

  “Cut the chatter,” Cole orders. “We have a long haul ahead of us.”

  “Where we headed?” Diaz asks. “All the way back to Denver?”

  “We’ll see,” Cole says. “I’d prefer to get as far as possible. But, with the weather looking like it is, we may want to find shelter.”

  “Let’s not risk it, TL,” Tiny D says. “Getting stuck in a storm would suck.”

  “True,” Cole says. “We’ll assess the weather when we hit the stadium. If we think we can move on to the next safe spot then that’s what we do.”

  “Remember when Silo Teams used to be the ones that went out into the wasteland and DTA only handled Denver?” Alastair sighs. “Good times.”

  “That was before the Code Monkeys came and fucked the Stronghold up,” Val says. “Or tried to. Didn’t quite work out.”

  “I hear that,” Tiny D says and high fives Val.

  “That’s chatter,” Cole says. “Which I said to cut. Silence from here on out until we are well away from Colorado Springs.”

  “What’s with the springs?” Alastair asks as he hurriedly stuffs a ghillie suit into a duffel and tosses it to Val. He grabs up the second one and stuffs that into a different duffel then throws it over his shoulder. “Are there actually springs around here? Because I’ve never seen any.”

  “They don’t exactly have signs pointing to them,” Diaz replies. “I’m sure some of the old timers up at the Stronghold know where they’re at.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Cole snaps. “Chatter. Stop.” He locks eyes with each and every Mate in DTA and then nods to Val. “You have point, Val.”

  “On it,” Val says. She secures the duffel to her pack then leads the way, her M-4 up and pointing the way out of the stand of trees.

  ***

  No light. Not even a hint of a candle or a rare glow stick.

  The woman with the shorn head rests against the wall, her eyes wide open despite the pitch blackness. Her back is sticky and damp from the slow trickle of water that leaks down the concrete. She is not happy that her captors have removed her long coat. She’d spent years conditioning that coat, applying sheep gland oil across its surface to protect it, and her, from the dangerously chaotic weather of the wasteland.

  She takes a deep breath and her lungs fill with the powerful smells of mildew, mold, and rotting things. Another deep breath and she is thankful that the rotting things are neither Zs nor human remains, just normal smells coming off of a pile of trash in the far corner.

  “Rat bait?” the woman asks. “You leave your garbage out and wait for the critters to show up, that it?”

  No one responds, but the woman knows she’s not alone. Even with the room being completely without light, there are ways to tell when someone is close. Light breathing, the almost imperceptible rustle of clothing, a heartbeat.

  Two heartbeats?

  The woman shifts against the wall, the sound of her wet shirt scratching against the old concrete like a wail in the night. She adjusts her position, tucking her legs up underneath. In a normal world, she would have looked like a woman poised on a couch, a nice cup of tea by her side and a book in hand. Which is the feeling she wants to portray. She wants the person (or persons) in the room with her to sense that she is completely at ease.

  Even if she is only waiting to grab a neck and snap it.

  “The rats are big now,” the woman says. “I remember when they didn’t used to be so huge. Skinny things trying to fight for scraps with the rest of us. Now they don’t have to fight. We are the scraps. How many are you?”

  An intake of breath then a shuffle. One of the persons was about to answer. The woman smiles in the dark.

  “You gave me a hard whack,” the woman continues. “Must be enough folks down here to give some protection if you’re willing to bring a stranger underground with you. These days you have to be careful. Unless you’re in the Stronghold or one of those random survivor pockets out there, you’re on your own.”

  No response.

  “I should know,” the woman says, pushing on. “I’ve been on my own for a long, long time. Used to have others. Used to be part of something bigger. That time has gone.”

  A scrape of feet, quiet shoes on rough concrete, and a presence just out of arm’s reach.

  “Go on” the woman says. “Ask your questions. You didn’t bring me down here to eat, so you gotta have questions.”

  “Your name,” a woman’s voice asks from across the room.

  A third person the shaved woman didn’t pick up on. That is troubling since she rarely gets something as easy as a head count wrong.

  “You first,” the shorn woman responds, turning to face the woman’s voice. “You’re the host.”

  “Skye,” the hidden woman replies. “Your name?”

  “Sister,” the shaved woman replies.

  “Sister?” Sky asks.

  “Sister,” Sister confirms.

  “That is not your real name,” Skye responds. “What is your real n
ame?”

  Sister laughs. “Been a very long time since I’ve used it. Can’t really remember.”

  “That is a lie,” Skye says.

  A fist comes out of the darkness and hits Sister across the cheek. It stings, but doesn’t do too much damage since she was waiting for the first strike to happen.

  “You are fast,” Skye says. “Why are you so fast?”

  “Have to be,” Sister says and shrugs. Something deep in her gut tells her that the three persons in the room can tell that she shrugged. “Two kinds of people in this world now: the quick and the dead. Same with the Zs. Two kinds of them: the quick and the slow. They’re all dead, though. Dead as doornails and other dead stuffs.”

  “You ramble,” Skye says.

  “Do I?” Sister asks. “Hmmmm. Been a few months since I’ve talked to the living. I guess I have some words built up and they are spilling over.”

  “What’s your real name?” Skye asks. Her voice is steel and razor wire, set hard and losing patience.

  “I don’t remember,” Sister replies.

  The fist comes from the dark again, but Sister blocks it easily, causing the owner to grunt and stumble back. The heartbeats, all three, increase and Sister hears a sharp intake of breath from Skye.

  “I’ll let you have your lie,” Skye says. “Sister.”

  “Thanks,” Sister replies. “You’re swell as swell can be. Super swell. The swellingest.”

  “Where do you come from?” Skye asks. “You know about the Stronghold. You know about other places. What else do you know?”

  “Two questions,” Sister says.

  “What?” Skye asks.

  “You asked me two questions,” Sister says. “Which one do you want me to answer first? Where do I come from or what else do I know? One’s a short story, one’s a long story. You want short or long?”

  “Where do you come from?” Skye repeats.

  “Short story? Okey doke,” Sister says. “I come from the Stronghold.”

  “No, you don’t,” Skye responds. “Another lie.”