Caught totally by surprise, Logan let out a yelp and involuntarily launched an inch off of his seat, a move that sent the headphones tumbling from his head crashing into the Pringles can he’d been using as a penholder, scattering chewed-on Bic pens and Sharpies all over the plywood floor. Then, teeth bared, the usually demure Logan turned to confront the unseen prankster.
Laughing at the sight of his baby brother’s dome-shaped hat-head, more so than the adverse reaction the sneak attack had elicited, Duncan laughed and slapped his thigh. When he’d finally calmed down he wiped the tears from his eyes and waited for his comeuppance.
Casting a glare that quickly morphed into a full blown smile, Logan shook his head and said, “I guess that conversation was over.” He hung the headphones up on a peg and pushed his chair backward, a discordant screech of rubber on plywood that could have woken the dead. He reached to the shelf and retrieved the Glock, which he slipped back into its black leather holster snugged against his right hip. Snatched the bowler hat off the shelf and positioned it precisely on his head. Finally squared away, heartbeat nearly back to normal, he sat back down and made a face at Duncan that said in no uncertain terms, Grow the fuck up.
“I’m still not used to how everything echoes down here,” said Duncan, ignoring the look he knew all too well. “But you gotta hand it to me, Oops. The way I snuck up on you ... I still got it ... don’t I, baby bro?”
“Lucky I didn’t pop a cap in your ass,” Logan said, patting his Glock. “Left you to bleed out on the sheet wood.”
“Good thing I wasn’t a real rotter. Or one of those hillbillies from Huntsville. You would have lost first-blood either way,” drawled Duncan. “Shoulda had one ear listening to whoever your friend was there and the other tuned in to your surroundings. Better yet, that main door should be secured at all times.”
“Your parenting days are over, Old Man,” Logan said. He switched off the ham radio and stored the folding chair under the desk. After straightening the papers on the desk, he turned back to face Duncan and added, “But thanks for caring.”
Looking over the top of his bifocals, Duncan said, “I thought we were done playing the nickname card.”
“Earlier today, if I’m not mistaken, it was you who referred to me as Oops over an open channel in front of God and Jaime and anyone else who might have been listening in.”
“Well you pissed me off by insisting I take Chatterbox Phil for a ride,” said Duncan. He craned his neck, checking the two adjoining containers for anyone within earshot. He lowered his voice and went on. “Hell, halfway to Huntsville I couldn’t decide how I was going to murder the man. Swear to God, if the Toyota had been a Huey that boy would have been getting flying lessons ... know what I mean?”
“He that bad?”
“Yeah ... I couldn’t decide between duct taping his mouth closed or dropping his motor mouth ass off in the middle of 39 and leaving him there until I finished the recon.”
Logan put his hands in his pockets. Shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head off to the side as if saying, Finished yet, old man?
Wondering if he should recount the story in its entirety, which would have to include indicting himself by divulging his new-found Achilles heel, Duncan worked his silver goatee, smoothed it out and then ruffled his knuckles cross grain against the whiskers. “You know, bro,” he finally said, “I was proud of myself today. Wanted to shove old Phil into a wood chipper on the way back. Head first so he’d remain silent. So anything he said couldn’t be held against him ... ever.”
“And?”
“And I turned the other cheek. Took the high road. Asked him to channel his inner mime ... and ... how do you younger folks say it in a text message? S-T-F-U.”
“Before smartphones became useless paper weights and texting a thing of the not-too-distant past, it was an acronym meaning shut the fuck up,” Logan said, wholeheartedly wishing Duncan would get tired of talking and do so as well. “That was mighty big of you, brother. ‘Cause once you’re past Phil’s annoying quirks he’s a pretty good guy.”
“Agreed. Young man saved my bacon on the road down there by Huntsville. And again ... if it wasn’t for his help on the bend up there ... no way I could have handled all the rotters that had gathered since we left,” Duncan admitted. “Gotta come clean with you, Logan. When the dead started walking, missing my exam at the VA was wayyy down on my worry list. Like not even registering, down on the list. But today, my diminished peripheral vision nearly got me killed.”
“And you think you’re OK to take the Black Hawk up?” Logan said, his brow hitching up an inch. “You know damn well the Army would clip your wings in a New York second.”
“This is different, Logan. You, baby bro, are not the Army. Besides, I didn’t have any problem flying that thing here from Colorado Springs.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you about that. After all that time away from the controls, how’d you manage that? Did it all come back to you like riding a bike, or did you have to consult a manual or something?”
“I saw a hundred hungry rotters heading our way and I started flicking the obvious switches. Then I prayed a little and hit the APU and the bird fired right up. Figure my success came about from a combination of things. One, I was rated in the Huey and I’ve had some stick time in a Cobra. Two, dumb luck. And three, a combination of the prayer and a couple more helpings of one and two thrown in for good measure. But in all seriousness, except for the electronic doo dads, the Black Hawk’s controls were pretty much the same as the old slicks and gunships. Plus ... having the Grayson fella in the left seat was a Godsend.”
“How so?”
“He worked the navigation and communication gear. Knew what he was doing. Even gave me some pointers ... apparently he’s logged a lot of hours riding around in helos. And the unit he’s in does a lot of cross-training ... they’re kinda like the jack of all trades in the Army—only they’re very deadly and they pretty much master everything.”
“So just say it. The Grayson guy is Delta Force.”
Before Duncan could confirm or deny the assertion there was an out-of-place noise in the adjoining room. A metallic sound complete with a drawn-out, hollow resonance as if a gong had been struck somewhere in the gloom. Then a few choice curse words and the echo of approaching footsteps.
Chapter 30
South Dakota
Cade’s view of the little Zs, with their faces and bodies smashed against the green-tinted safety glass, reminded him how the late Hosford Preston had gotten him and Daymon trapped in the attic of the old farmhouse in Hanna, Utah. And just as the centuries-old glass between them and the dead had failed then—he presumed the glass inches from his face would do the same at any moment.
He tried the key. Nothing. Then he turned the ignition all the way off and cycled forward, engaging the starter. It produced a strong-sounding effort as he pumped the gas, but didn’t live up to its name.
“Use caution,” mumbled Jasper. “Floods easily.”
“That’s the least of our problems,” Cade replied. Nonplussed, he repeated the process with the same result. Released the key, silencing the starter, then sat in brooding silence, breathing in gasoline fumes from the now-flooded carburetor.
Jasper made no reply.
“Let it rest for a minute,” Ari said. He glanced up at the rearview and noticed Lopez engaging the dead, face-to-face, smashmouth combat, bashing in their skulls with the fully-collapsed butt stock of his M4. Hicks and Cross were standing shoulder-to-shoulder firing round after round from their pistols. After seeing the destruction the operators were wreaking on the dead, Ari flicked his gaze back to Cade. “I think we’re going to survive this.”
Looking over his shoulder, Cade said, “Do you know something I don’t? Can’t exactly call in danger close if we have no kind of air support.” He looked at his watch. Two minutes.
“Roger that, but we’ve still got the Hercules.”
“No use to us here, Ari,” said Cade
. Sitting there with a dead numb ankle in a dead truck surrounded with walking dead led to his thoughts wandering off to a dark place. A place where he kept all of his mortal worries. A place his pre-mission mental rituals were supposed to have sealed off. But the mental trap had failed. The proverbial dike had sprung a leak, leaving him with no defense against reflecting on his family’s future without him. He took comfort in knowing that this deep into the outbreak, Brook had proven herself adept at taking care of Raven. His girls had run a hundred and thirty mile gauntlet through the dead-plagued countryside from South Carolina to Bragg, and then from that seemingly impregnable stronghold, Brook had delivered them to Schriever without a scratch. Hell, he thought, as the dead crowded, rocking the truck on its springs, Brook had even ventured outside the wire on her own—twice—returning unscathed on both occasions. In his mind, two words described her: Mission capable. Raven, on the other hand, was a raw piece of clay that still needed a good deal of shaping. Sure, she had already been taught how to listen to her intuition when it came to right and wrong and good or bad. But this wasn’t the fourth grade, and when it came to the living dead she was still dangerously naive. She knew the basics but not the specifics. Thanks to Mike Desantos she was crystal clear on the one-bite rule. She was also very familiar with, when it’s night, douse the light, a newly made-up mantra of Brook’s—corny but effective. Bottom line, was she to be taken outside the wire to see firsthand the drive the dead exhibited once they locked on to fresh meat? To know more than anything that every encounter with infected humans had the likelihood of becoming a true kill-or-be-killed fight to the death?
Slowly he was resigning himself to accept the fact that someone else was going to have to see them through in his stead. A hot tear rolled down his cheek as he realized how terribly he was going to miss them. He hefted the Glock. Pulled the slide back. One in the pipe. That, plus the glint of brass in the well, assured him he wasn’t going out alone. Sadly, he couldn’t remember how many shells were sandwiched between the one he could see and the spring-loaded follower. You’re slipping, Wyatt. So while Ari recited a prayer, Jasper rocked silently in his seat, and the dead scratched against the hood, he dropped the mag from the well, catching it in the palm of his hand. He turned it around, counting the available rounds showing in the see-through holes designed into the back of the magazine. Three, plus the one already chambered. That’ll have to do. Two for Jasper and two for me. He figured Ari would save one in the Beretta to fulfill his own exit plan when the time came.
The distinctive crunch-crunch of a twelve gauge round being chambered nudged Cade from his dark thoughts. He turned his eyes up to consult the rearview. At the same instant Ari and Jasper turned their heads in response to the unmistakable, universal sound that said look alive or else.
“We’re dangerously low on ammo,” Lopez said breathlessly into the comms as his rifle cut a blurry arc through the air, each delivered blow resulting in small eruptions of brain and fluids. “How much longer, Captain?”
“It’s flooded. Thirty seconds or so and I’ll give it another try.”
“When it starts, put the pedal to the metal and leave the rest up to us,” Cross said.
“Roger that,” was all Cade could muster. Wondering what the President’s man had in mind, Cade rolled his head to the left and locked eyes with one of the undead campers and then, for the second time in less than an hour, wished he knew more than he did about the properties of fuel—unleaded gasoline to be more specific.
Chapter 31
Eden Compound
The sound in the corridor was not foreign. In fact, every person who had ever set foot in the compound had heard the same thing at least once—either up close and personal or as an innocent bystander as demonstrated by Duncan and Logan. And most likely every person in either position had uttered or had to listen to a similar string of salty language.
So as the footfalls drew nearer and the epithets grew louder and more colorful, Duncan stuck a finger in the air as if saying hold that thought and pressed tight against the wall to allow whomever approached clear passage.
Three feet away, however, Logan was shaking his head and mouthing, “You’ll regret it.”
For once Duncan listened to reason, or Logan—whatever the case might be—and stood down.
A beat later, Daymon entered through the narrow doorway, stooped over, one hand slowly massaging his forehead.
Noticing he was not alone, he straightened up and regarded each man; first Duncan with a nod and a raised brow, and then Logan with a half-hearted glare. “While I’m not a fan of tight confines, I usually find a way to adapt and overcome. But this place of yours, Logan, it effin takes things to a new level of cramped.”
Raising a brow, Logan said, “What’s the problem?”
“Well, since you asked. I feel like freakin’ Gandalf having to hunch over like an old man through every doorway. You design this place?”
Logan nodded. “You crack your head for the first time?”
“No ... that was the third. And the worst.” Wishing ice was as easily obtained as before the apocalypse, he rubbed the growing knot and said, “Who’d you consult with on this underground tomb, anyway ... a bunch of hobbits?”
Duncan shot Logan a look that said, I got this. Then a conspiratorial smile crossed his face as he answered the question. “No, son. Their Shire was under siege so Oops here went low-budget and consulted the Keebler Elves.”
“Smart ass,” Logan snapped back. “Why don’t you tell your claustrophobic friend here how you blew your half of the inheritance.”
Duncan made a face, pushed off the cold steel wall, and paced ten feet to the far end of the container where a metal door sat propped open.
Sensing the rising tension, Daymon changed the subject and said, “Were you two having some kind of a secret meeting or something when I walked in here? Cause y’all went real quiet, real quick.”
“Move along, sir. Nothing to see here, sir,” Duncan said with a chuckle that echoed off the walls and ceiling. “There is no conspiracy taking place here because Logan prefers to run this compound by committee. With full transparency, of course.”
Ignoring the disparaging comment, Logan said to Daymon, “We’re getting the group together for a meeting at dusk. I’d like you and Heidi to be there.”
“Where is there?”
“Far side of the clearing.”
“Sounds great to this garden-variety-claustrophobe. But why outside after all that’s happened around here today? Aren’t you worried about drawing more attention to yourselves?”
“Gotta hold it outside,” said Logan. “There’s no way to fit all of us in any one room down here. And I’m pretty sure with the message Duncan sent our friends in Huntsville we’re not going to have any visitors with bad intentions in the near future. Probably won’t get any Christmas cards from ‘em either.”
“So should I invite Jenkins?”
“Already beat you to it,” answered Duncan. “Logan says since Charlie is former law enforcement he’s in automatically.”
“And Tran?”
Clicking his tongue, Duncan said, “Hell, he looked like he was on death’s door. Won’t blame him if he doesn’t feel up to attending.”
“He’s not as bad off as he looked when we got here,” said Daymon. “He lost a lot of blood. Had a pretty bad head wound, but your Indian friend who patched him up said he thinks the little guy has a couple of broken ribs and a hell of a sprained ankle, but other than that there wasn’t anything life threatening about his injuries.”
“Though he holds a different opinion than me,” Logan intoned. “It’s true what my brother said, this compound is run like a democracy. Everyone is welcome and eventually gets a say in matters as long as they pitch in and can prove they play well with others.”
“Rules me out then,” said Daymon, cracking a smile. “I’d better pack up and leave.”
“You and your friends are OK,” said Logan. “The Old Man made an execu
tive decision. Apparently he’s already vetted you.”
Nodding, Duncan said, “See you outside near the airstrip just after dark?”
“I’ll be there ... can’t speak for the others. I’ll run it by them though,” said Daymon.
Logan grabbed the legal pad from the desk, tore a yellow sheet from somewhere near the middle, uncapped a black Sharpie and began to draw. In less than a minute he’d knocked out a crude map complete with a hastily drawn SR-39, a thick, no nonsense scrawl looping around the compound. The airstrip, however, was a dotted black line bisecting the middle of the page and he’d drawn a pretty good-looking compass rose pointing north, denoting the compound’s location in relation to Logan, Huntsville, and Eden.
Never one to pass up an opportunity to levy a quip, Daymon said, “Writing me a love letter? But we only just met.” He took the map from Logan and held it under the overhead bulb. It was a crude overview of the compound, that much he knew after having seen the property from the air while aloft in the DHS Black Hawk. However, the hieroglyphic-looking markings scattered about the lined sheet meant nothing to him without a key. So he put the map flat on the desk and looked a question at Logan.
“Sorry Daymon, I’m not very artistic by nature,” said Logan. “I’m more of a computer and numbers guy.”
“No worries,” said Daymon, leaning over the map. “What exactly am I looking at here?”
“Obviously a map of the compound ... but not to scale. First and foremost, make sure you go nowhere near the Xs marked here, and here, and the ones by State Route 39, right here,” said Logan, black Sharpie acting as a pointer. “Each one of those indicate where we’ve dug rotter traps. Basically holes outfitted with sharpened sticks.”
Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 16