Dead Team Alpha (Book 2): The Stronghold

by Jake Bible

  “TL!” Fitzpatrick yells.

  “Fitz! Leave him!” Crumb yells, running over to her and grabbing her shoulder. “Come on! Pickering has punched a hole!”

  Fitzpatrick looks into the glazed eyes of her TL and shakes her head. Before she can say anything, Crumb puts a 9mm round in his temple, sending the TL’s brains spraying out to the side. Fitzpatrick chokes back a scream and looks up at Crumb.

  “Had to be done! Now come on!” Crumb yells, pulling her to her feet.

  She staggers a second and gets her bearings then brings her M-4 up and hurries along with Crumb after Pickering. They pierce the thick smoke, coughing and gagging from the fumes, but do not slow down. Angry shouts and screeches follow behind them, both man-made and Z-made.

  The dim outline of Pickering’s form can barely be seen as they sprint down what looks to be an alleyway. The old rusted husks of dumpsters line the cracked and crumbling brick walls of the two story buildings on each side. Much of the brick from the facades has fallen off, leaving random piles of debris strewn about, ready and waiting to snap the ankles of the unwary.

  But both Fitzpatrick and Crumb see the piles, dodging around them as they continue to follow after Pickering. The smoke begins to thin and they see their Mate slow then stop suddenly. He lifts an arm and clenches his fist, crouching low. Fitzpatrick and Crumb reach him, crouching down next to the man.

  Fitzpatrick is about to ask what he sees, but a strong gust of wind clears the smoke away for a couple seconds and the words choke in her throat along with a terrified gasp.

  Thousands upon thousands of Zs fill the streets before them. The alley has led them to the edge of a small hill and out before them, visible since the buildings for several blocks have collapsed and crumbled into piles of nothing, for as far as they can see, are Zs. So many Zs.

  “They are between us and the next station,” Pickering whispers. He points and indicates a water tower about a mile away. “The pyre is out which means they’ve been told to get the hell out of Denver.”

  “We should do the same thing,” Crumb says.

  “That would be nice,” Pickering replies then shows them his hand. The glove is coated with blood. “But I’m not making it up the turnpike. We get to that station, grab you two some supplies and ammo, then you leave me while you two head for home.”

  “Leave you?” Fitzpatrick whispers. “We leave you up there and you’re dead. There’s no way we’ll get back into the city to rescue you. Look at all the fucking Zs!”

  “I see them, Fitz,” Pickering replies. “I didn’t say you’d come back to rescue me. This isn’t a knife wound.”

  He twists and angles his body, showing his Mates where he’s been wounded. And by what.

  “Fuck,” Crumb says. “How the hell did one get in close enough for a bite?”

  “I don’t know,” Pickering says. “I thought I had them all then shit went bad. I looked down and the bastard had my leg. I put one through his head, but it was too late.”

  “Pickering, man, I’m sorry,” Crumb replies.

  “Shit happens, brother,” Pickering says. “We’re Mates so shit just happens worse to us.”

  “We’ll get you to that water tower,” Fitzpatrick says. “I’ll carry your ass on my back up that ladder, if I have to.”

  “Thanks,” Pickering says. “It’s bullshit, I know. You two should just ditch my soon-to-be-undead ass, but I don’t want to die down here on the ground where the Zs can get me. I’m being selfish asking this of you.”

  “That’s a bunch of crap,” Crumb says.

  Pickering gives them a weak smile. “I’ll take care of myself up there when I know it’s time. The key though is to get you two enough ammo for the sprint to the turnpike. No way you can get through this shit hand to hand.”

  The sound of feet on brick gets their attention and they whirl around to see several men and women running at them down the alley.

  “Shit,” Crumb says.

  The three Mates turn and open fire, tearing into the crazed attackers’ bodies, sending them flying against the old dumpsters and falling to the piles of building crumbs.

  Fitzpatrick stands and helps Pickering to his feet. Crumb starts to move to the wounded and dead crazies, but Fitzpatrick clamps her hand on his shoulder.

  “We need to put them down before they change,” Crumb says.

  “Don’t bother,” Fitzpatrick says. “Won’t make a difference if a few more join the herd.”

  “Yeah, speaking of,” Pickering says. “Those gunshots have brought us some attention.”

  Fitzpatrick and Crumb turn back to the insane amount of Zs and see a horde branching off from the main herd, heading right for them.

  “Shit,” Fitzpatrick says. “That’s our one avenue to get to the water tower.”

  “You find a new one,” Pickering says as he unbuckles his vest and lets it fall to the ground. He tosses his M-4 on top as well as his 9mm. “Get to those supplies then bust ass up the mountain, got it?”

  “Wait, what?” Crumb asks, but it’s too late.

  Pickering takes off at a running limp, his hands over his head, waving back and forth.

  “Hey! Come on you undead sons of bitches! Meal time!” Pickering shouts at the top of his lungs. He heads off in the opposite direction of the water tower. “Look at me! Free food! Come and get it, boys and girls!”

  “God dammit,” Crumb snarls. He checks his 9mm then reluctantly reaches down and grabs extra magazines from Pickering’s dropped vest. He fishes out the two M-4 magazines and tosses them to Fitzpatrick. “You want his carbine too?”

  “No,” Fitzpatrick replies, tucking the magazines into pockets on her own vest. “Mine’ll be enough.”

  “Nothing is going to be enough against that,” Crumb says, nodding towards the gigantic herd of Zs that swarms over Denver.

  “No, not against that,” Fitzpatrick agrees. “But it may be enough to get us the fuck away from that. Come on.”

  She starts running, careful to keep low and as much out of the line of sight of the edges of the herd as she can. Crumb mimics her posture, following right behind.

  ***

  “Hold,” Val hisses.

  DTA and DTB1 all come to a stop. None of the Mates look happy about the pause in their forward progress, especially since they are long past getting ahead of the Z herd and have only been maintaining a delicate invisibility for several blocks now.

  “What is it?” Cole asks, moving up next to Val.

  “Listen,” Val says.

  They wait, but all that can be heard is the droning sound of hundreds of thousands of undead feet shuffling along the cracked asphalt of Denver’s roads.

  “Val,” Cole growls.

  “Listen,” she insists.

  After a second they all hear it and turn towards the sound.

  Someone is shouting, deliberately drawing the Zs his way. Which happens to be right towards the two Teams.

  “Shit,” Cole says. “What is the idiot doing?”

  “I’d say he’s saving someone’s ass,” Stanford says. “Getting them to follow him instead of the other person or persons. More brave than idiotic.”

  “You’d know one of those things,” Val says.

  “Ha ha,” Stanford replies.

  “What do we do?” Val asks Cole. “We’re going to intersect with who knows how many Zs.”

  “Shit,” Cole grumbles.

  “We could take out the dipshit,” Stanford suggests. “Let the Zs swarm on him and then slip by while they eat.”

  “Have you lost your mind?” Cole asks. “That’s probably a Mate out there!”

  “Calm down,” Stanford says. “The guy is already dead. No way he’s getting away from the Zs. Not while he yells for them to follow him.”

  “Maybe he sees someplace he can hide and is heading that way,” Val says.

  “Maybe,” Stanford says. “But I doubt it.”

  “Jesus, Ford,” Cole says. “You’re a cold motherfucker when y
ou get your heart broken.”

  “Better a cold motherfucker with a broken heart than a dead asshole with his guts feeding a bunch of Zs,” Stanford says. He glances around and eyes a less than stable fire escape across the street on the alley side of a building. “I’ll do it. I’m the best shot.”

  “Ford!” Cole nearly shouts then clamps his mouth shut as the Mate sprints across the road and into the alley. “Fucking asshole.”

  “Come and get it!” the shouting voice calls out.

  “He’s getting closer,” Val says.

  They watch Stanford grab the fire escape ladder and haul himself up onto the first grate. The whole structure wobbles and shifts and he freezes in place. Once it stops moving, he carefully makes his way up the three flights of metal stairs until he is at a ladder bolted to the side of the building.

  “I’m still not cool with this,” Cole says. “Killing another Mate…”

  “Everyone counts, Cole,” Val says. “But sometimes they count in ways we don’t think of.”

  “You sound like that Sister chick,” Cole says. “And I’m not cool with that.”

  Stanford stands on the roof of the building across from them and puts his M-4 to his shoulder. He waits for a few seconds as the sound of the yeller gets louder and louder.

  Val peers around the corner of the alley the Teams are in and sees a man come limping quickly down their street. A thousand Zs easy are close on his ass, but even with the limp, the man is moving fast enough to stay ahead.

  “Oh, fuck me, it’s Pickering,” Val says and looks at Cole, her eyes wide.

  “Makes it real now, doesn’t it,” Cole says just as a shot rings out.

  Pickering staggers and looks down at his chest then up towards the building where Stanford is standing. Another shot rings out and half of Pickering’s head is obliterated.

  Val turns and gags, trying to keep her gorge down. Cole pats her on the shoulder until she straightens up. She takes a couple of deep breaths, looks at him, then looks back into the alley at the rest of DTA and DTB1. Stone cold faces and hard eyes look back at her. They nod, she nods back.

  “Ford did what he had to,” Val says.

  “Yeah,” Cole replies.

  It’s his turn to look back at the Teams and he raises a hand then points two fingers out of the alley and down the street, away from the Zs that are swarming over the cooling corpse of fresh meat.

  “We don’t stop again,” Cole says. “A man died so we can keep going. AMate died. We do not slow down or rest until we’re on a fucking trolley and heading up the mountain to the Stronghold. Got it?”

  They all nod.

  “Go,” he orders.

  ***

  The sound of the gunshot makes Fitzpatrick slow down and cock her head. She looks over at Crumb and he shrugs.

  “Could be someone else,” Crumb says.

  “I don’t hear Pickering yelling anymore,” Fitzpatrick responds. “Someone shot him.”

  “Or he couldn’t keep going and shot himself,” Crumb says. “He left his magazines, but kept his 9.”

  “I’d like to think it’s that,” Fitzpatrick says. “But if it’s the other, I’m going to find a motherfucker and blow them away.”

  “Let’s live through the next few hours before we plan any revenge,” Crumb says as the two Mates keep sprinting in the direction of the water tower.

  ***

  Stanford hangs off the bottom of the fire escape ladder for only a second before dropping to the ground. He checks his carbine, making sure it is snug to his back, peaks out at the road and the herd of Zs still feasting on Pickering’s body, then gets ready to sprint after DTA and DTB1.

  He gets ready, but doesn’t start sprinting right away. The sound of metal groaning and tearing stops him and he looks up at the fire escape above him.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” he says to himself as he watches the top most grate start to pull away from the brick building, its rusted bolts finally giving up. “Shit!”

  Stanford runs as fast and hard as he can away from the alley as the entire fire escape begins to collapse to the ground. The sound of metal tearing is deafening, like knives shoved into Stanford’s ears. The impact of the fire escape onto the dumpsters and asphalt in the alley is louder than the worst thunderclap. Stanford can feel the impact through his boots as much as he hears it through his assaulted ears.

  DTA and DTB1 turn to look back at him and he waves his hands, gesturing for them to keep going, but a hell of a lot faster. Everyone’s eyes go wide and they do just as his gestures suggest.

  Stanford is actually surprised at how fast Alastair and Diaz are moving with Tiny D’s stretcher. They’re barely lagging behind the main group. Diaz glances back once more and catches Stanford’s eye then looks past him and shakes his head before turning forward.

  There is no need to even look over his shoulder. Stanford knows exactly what Diaz saw. He can feel the thousands of undead feet vibrating the broken street just as well as he had felt the fire escape hitting the ground.

  “I fucking hate Zs,” Stanford says. “I really fucking hate Z herds.”

  He digs deep and picks up speed, hoping to catch up with the Teams before the Zs catch up to him.

  ***

  The water tower looms above Fitzpatrick and Crumb, its bulbous top shining bright in the early morning sunlight. The glare causes Fitzpatrick to put a hand to her eyes. Once shielded, she has a better view of the ladder attached to one of the legs of the tower. And also at what hangs from the ladder.

  “Holy shit,” Fitzpatrick says, whipping her M-4 up and spinning about, looking for the attack she is sure is coming.

  “What?” Crumb asks then glances at the ladder. “Oh, fuck. That’s Tally Jones. She’s with DTB4.”

  “She was,” Fitzpatrick says. “Until the cannies got to her.”

  “Cannies?” Crumb asks. “We don’t know it was cannies.”

  “Did you see the teeth on those crazies back there?” Fitzpatrick replies. “Sharpened, man. Cannies have moved in and taken over.”

  “Crap,” Crumb says. “The Zs must have driven them out of the waste and deeper into the city.”

  “Food source is gone,” Fitzpatrick says.

  Crumb stares up at the top of the ladder and the second body partially draped over the edge.

  “I think that’s Simon Torres,” Crumb says. “Man, his family has been in the Stronghold since almost day one. He’s the last of that line.”

  “Bummer,” Fitzpatrick says, looking quickly to confirm. “Yeah, that’s him. What are you thinking, Crumb?”

  “That dead Mates have gear we need,” Crumb responds. “It’s a shitty thought, but we made it this far. It’d be stupid to let Pickering’s sacrifice go to waste.”

  “I’ll cover while you rummage,” Fitzpatrick says.

  “Seriously?” Crumb asks. “Thanks.”

  Fitzpatrick doesn’t respond. The sound of Zs is everywhere and she is busy moving her M-4 back and forth, back and forth, waiting for the first group of Zs to come at them. Lucky for them, the water tower is surrounded by a concrete block wall with traces of old razor wire at the top. The chain link gate that had been at the entrance to the enclosure is torn from its hinges, making it useless, but at least the one entrance makes a perfect bottleneck if Zs decided to get curious.

  It also means only one exit if things go bad.

  A heavy whump makes Fitzpatrick jump and she spins about.

  “Sorry,” Crumb says from the ladder. “Only way I could get by.”

  “A warning next time, please,” Fitzpatrick replies.

  Fitzpatrick can hear Crumb moving about far above her, his boots clattering on the metal walkway as he scavenges for supplies.

  “No other bodies up here,” Crumb calls down quietly. “They either got away or were taken away.”

  “Let’s pray for the former,” Fitzpatrick replies.

  “Food too or just ammo?” Crumb asks from above.

  “Fo
od too,” Fitzpatrick replies, her stomach growling at the thought of something to eat.

  DTB3 had been on its way back to the turnpike and the system of trolleys that carried people up and down the old highway from Stronghold to Denver and back again. Standard procedure is to carry as few rations as possible to keep weight down. They had all timed it perfectly so the last of their food was gone on their last night of deployment into the Denver wasteland.

  They would have been on a trolley by now, but those plans obviously changed.

  “Not much here,” Crumb says. “Some apples. A pack of protein crumble. Oh, wait, here’s a—Fuck!”

  There’re six gunshots in rapid succession then Crumb’s agonizing scream. Fitzpatrick looks up in time to dive to her side and avoid the falling body of her Team Mate. Crumb’s head explodes as it hits the pavement. His torso is a mess of blood, bone, and pulpy flesh, obviously torn apart by the gunfire Fitzpatrick had heard.

  Her carbine pointing up at the water tower, Fitzpatrick knee walks backwards until her back bumps against the concrete wall surrounding the water tower. She keeps her eyes and weapon trained on the walkway, waiting for a sign of the shooter.

  There’s a scrape of boot on metal and she is about to pull the trigger at where she thinks the sound is coming from, but a different sound gets her attention. A few feet to her right is the broken chain link gate and wall opening. The gate rattles and shakes as it is bumped aside by the Zs that shamble their way into the enclosure, drawn to the sounds of the gun that killed Crumb.

  Fitzpatrick has a brief irrational thought, one of those that pops up in times of trauma, that maybe the fall had killed him, not the bullets, but the thought flies away as survival instinct kicks in.

  She has nowhere to go.

  The wall is ten feet high. Higher than she’s able to scale. Maybe if she gets a running start?

  She sprints across the enclosure, dodging the legs of the water tower, and throws herself up and at the far wall. Her hands scramble for purchase, her boots dig for holds, but the concrete is old and crumbly, coming loose in her grip, sending her falling back onto her ass.