Cross took a deep calming breath and pumped two .357 rounds into its open mouth, rose to standing on shaky legs, and hustled uphill as fast as his battered extremities would carry him.
***
No sooner than Lopez and Hicks were safely in the box-bed, Cade had turned the wheel and accelerated. He looked through the sweeping turn and watched the tail end of the trailer disappear from sight. “Cross, how copy?” he said into the comms. Nothing. Nearing the point where the truck left the road, he tried hailing the agent again and was met with silence in his ear and the gnawing feeling that they would be burying yet another team member alongside Desantos and Maddox.
Slewing the truck sideways and halting parallel on the shoulder, Cade ordered Lopez to stand up and take a quick peek, stressing the fact that the Hercules was on its final approach.
Suddenly his ear bud crackled to life. “Anvil Actual, how copy?” said the disembodied voice.
Cade answered, “Solid copy, Oil Can Five-Five. Miracle accomplished.”
“Roger that,” said Dover. “Better rally to the extraction point. We will be wheels down and rolling out in less than one minute. And be advised you have Zs entering my runway to the east.”
“Solid copy,” Cade replied. “We will take them out ASAP. Anvil out.”
The truck rocked on its suspension as Lopez stood on the wheel well in order to see down the hill.
“I see the truck,” said Lopez. “And it don’t look good, Captain.”
“Do you see any signs of Cross?”
“Negative,” Lopez said at about the same instant Cross—dust-covered from head to toe and limping like he’d been beaten—rose from behind a shrub twenty feet downslope. “Disregard, Captain. I have eyes on Cross.”
“Roger that,” Cade answered back. “Is he ambulatory?”
“Affirmative,” Lopez answered back.
“Just what I needed to hear. I need you and Hicks to help him get up here on the double ... our freedom bird is forty-five seconds out.” He looked past Ari and out Jasper’s window and saw the Hercules, nose down at an impossible angle, its barn-door sized flaps which ran along two-thirds of the wings’ trailing edges already deployed at a ninety-degree angle. His first impression of the plummeting aircraft was that something wasn’t right. The Hercules looked like a giant gray lawn dart about to spear the ground. But while Cade gaped like a bystander at a fatal wreck, the Herc slowly nosed up out of the dive, and landing gear wrapped with huge black tires that looked like they could take a pounding sprouted from the nose and amidships.
“Captain, Hicks is not good to go,” said Lopez into the comms. “He’s mumbling something about someone named Kylie. I think he has snapped or something.”
“You’re on your own, Lopez.”
Without a word Lopez bounded from the truck and ran down the embankment and disappeared from sight.
“What’s the matter, Hicks?” asked Cade, twisting around in his seat in order to try and establish eye contact.
Silence. The Ghost Hawk crew chief was sitting on the wheel arch with his legs draped across the dead, eyes transfixed on something in the far away distance. A sudden onset of PTSD? Cade wondered. If he was correct, it was a long time coming, considering all they had been through since Z-Day. At any rate, he concluded, Hicks was now no more useful than Jasper had been at the onset of his episode, and considering their current predicament there was nothing he or anybody else could do until they were all safely aboard the Hercules. Then, splitting his time between watching the incoming bird and casting looks back at Hicks, Cade ticked off the seconds in his head. And when he reached ten he said, “We gotta go, Lopez. We need to be clear of the road.” He cast his gaze right and saw movement to the east near where the Hercules would be coming in. Looking like flocked Christmas trees and contrasting dramatically against the sooty black wall of metal, the little summer camp zombies were approaching at twice as fast a pace as the others. Then he looked left and noticed a new group of Zs emerging from the nearby snarl of vehicles in twos and threes, rapidly spreading out across the Interstate.
Chapter 40
South Dakota
Aboard Oil Can Five-Five
Setting his gaze on the hundred-foot-wide swath of scorched interstate, Dover noted the numerous burned-out automobiles and the looming tractor-trailer rig that his tail would need to clear prior to setting the Hercules down on the two-lane. Slowly he started bringing the flaps into play, throttling back simultaneously, eyes flicking over the gauges and indicators. He flipped a lever bringing the landing gear out of their housings, and when the proper indicators lit up he said, “Gear down. Flaps full. Holding max effort threshold.”
To Dover’s right, Meredith rattled off a few updates. He stated the current wind speed which was almost nonexistent. Then his voice changed timbre. Like he’d just been surprised, he said, “You’ve got Zs east side on the inbound approach.”
“Roger that. I see them. Are those kids?”
“They were at one time,” intoned the co-pilot.
Dover went silent for half a heartbeat. Craned his head trying to assess the situation, then said matter-of-factly, “Committing fully.” And during that nanosecond in time when he’d made the final decision from which there would be no return, he registered a snapshot of the scene in his mind. Forty feet below the Hercules, the twisted and melted metal skeletons of what used to be cars and trucks sat fused together, a black tangle of instantaneous death by immolation. And just beyond the accident scene where the makeshift runway began, a couple of dozen zombies, child-sized and seemingly painted brilliant white, were frozen mid-stride. Then, the last thing that registered before he flicked his eyes up were their pale, sneering faces flashing by under the Herc’s nose.
On Interstate 90
“Anvil Actual. You have exactly thirty-five ... that’s three ... five seconds to clear the runway,” said the Herc’s co-pilot.
“Copy that,” said Cade as he witnessed Cross’s dust-coated black helmet break the horizon. A tick later, Lopez, who was a half-head shorter than the President’s security man, came into view. He had Cross’s left arm draped over his shoulder and appeared to be helping to steady him more so than actually bearing any body weight.
Making eye contact with Cade, Cross tapped his helmet over his right ear and then drew a finger across his throat, combined gestures that explained fully why the operator had gone radio silent.
“Help’s on the way, Lopez,” said Cade. Then he nudged Ari lightly, looked past him, and addressed Jasper directly. “Ari, cut Jasper loose.”
After a triple take Ari flicked open his multi-tool and cut the undertaker’s bonds.
Cade leaned across Ari. He looked Jasper in the eye and said, “Ari, I need you and Jasper to get out and help them in this vehicle. Throw them in if you have to ... you OK with that, Jasper?”
Nodding an affirmative, Jasper popped his door open, and with a burst of speed that belied his size, leapt out and was helping Lopez manhandle Cross into the back before Ari had gotten his legs untangled from the transmission hump.
“Forget about it,” said Cade, placing his arm across Ari’s chest. “That was a test. I needed to know if we could count on him to help move the bodies up the Herc’s ramp when the time comes.”
“By the looks of it I think he’s passed with flying colors,” Ari said as he watched the undertaker help Lopez into the back by physically lifting the operator over the tailgate.
OK. Now get your ass inside here, thought Cade as he watched Lopez helping Hicks to find a place to sit that would be safer than the raised wheel well. Finally, after a couple of the longest seconds of Cade’s life, he saw Jasper’s fingers curl around the grab handle. Simultaneously, he goosed the throttle and hauled the steering wheel left, a move that rolled the truck hard to the passenger side on its tired springs.
Feeling the truck lurch and sensing the loading g-forces, Ari made a grab for the loose fabric of the undertaker’s sweat stained shirt.
“Good work getting my men in back, Mister Literal,” said Cade, ignoring the fact he’d almost turned Jasper into street pizza.
Jasper made a face. Opened his mouth but said nothing.
Cade used the opening. Flicking his eyes from the road ahead and the Hercules’ reflection in the rearview, he said, “I owe you one for that. But we’re not out of the woods yet. Cross ... he looks like he’s firing on half a cylinder. Hicks is damn near catatonic. And—”
“I get it,” said Jasper, his voice cracking slightly. “Whatever you need from me here on out, just ask.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Ari, earning an elbow shot from Cade to his already more-than-tender ribcage.
Deviating from his course by a degree, Cade urged the truck to the right, sideswiped a trio of zombies and wiped them clean off the interstate. “I hate to impose,” said Cade. “But I’m going to need your help transferring our fallen teammates to the airplane after it lands. Just be a little more gentle with them than you were with Lopez and Cross. Can I count on you for that?”
“Yes,” said Jasper softly. “I’m sorry I lost it back there. That was the largest group of those things that I’d seen in one place, at one time, and that close. One of those things is bad enough ... especially when it’s a family member. But back there, right then, seeing all those dead kids showed me the enormity of this great die-off. I thought I saw my kids back there ... it was all in my head. I know that now.”
“Understandable,” Cade replied as he eased off the gas. “You’ve been burying Draper all by yourself for the last two weeks. I’ve buried a few myself. Same thing probably happened to Hicks. He just lost his good friend Durant ... ” Cade nodded towards the corpses arranged in the box-bed.
Jasper made no reply.
Once again Cade’s ear bud crackled to life. “Ten seconds,” a disembodied voice said with all the emotion of someone calling out bingo numbers.
This prompted Cade to crane his head out the window. He saw the Hercules clear the immolated tractor-trailer with only inches to spare, and just before its landing gear contacted the ground he caught a flash of the child zombies’ upturned white faces tracking it as it buzzed over their heads.
Eyeing the breakdown lane, Cade kept the pedal floored. He watched the needle creep past thirty then on to forty and then risked another look over his shoulder.
“Wheels down,” Dover said in his ear, confirming what he was witnessing. Blasted by the turbulence following the settling aircraft, several of the tiny flesh-eaters toppled and rolled, white dust devils spinning in their wake. For some reason the channel remained open and he heard someone in the cockpit say, “Reversing thrust.” Then he heard nothing but the cacophonous roar of Oil Can’s four humongous Rolls Royce engines rising to a crescendo as it rolled up on their six. He stole a glance at Cross and read his lips; the man was urging him to drive faster with a few eff bombs inserted between the pertinent words. He regarded Lopez and it came as no surprise to see the operator performing the sign of the cross over his chest. Hicks, however, had slumped over and was laying prone, head resting on the general’s exposed entrails, staring wide-eyed at the sky.
Then Oil Can’s engine noise changed pitch and the roar escalated to a sonic tempest he guessed was somewhere in the decibel range of a category five tornado. “Come on girl,” he said under his breath. “Don’t die on me now.” No sooner had the words passed his lips than the instrument panel lit up with small instantly recognizable symbols that basically screamed out, “Too late for oil, kiss your engine goodbye.”
He pulled far off the interstate and jammed the Chevy to a stop. It listed to the passenger side as the shoulder settled under its weight. “Time to make a stand, boys,” he said, killing the engine.
But it didn’t want to die. The motor, as if demonically possessed, kept up a knocking sound for a beat and then finally seized up, belching blue-gray smoke, smelling like pit row at the Indy 500. Issuing a series of orders over the comms, Cade holstered his compact Glock and reached behind him to accept the M4 Lopez was passing through the rear slider.
With the Zs less than thirty feet away, Lopez grabbed another carbine and checked the mag. Empty. He reached beneath Tice’s corpse and stripped the last two magazines from the dead man’s chest rig. Dropped the empty from his M4 and seated a fully-loaded thirty-round mag into the well. In one fluid movement he charged the weapon, flicked the selector to single shot, and spiraled into a combat crouch. Weathered paint cracking under his weight, he rested both elbow pads on the sheet metal roof and made a conscious effort to calm his breathing. Snugging the carbine in tight, he said to himself, “Make them count, pinche.” He hovered the red holographic pip on the closest walker and his senses went into what he liked to call quicksand mode. At once his vision sharpened and he became acutely aware of every sound around him. First he heard the truck’s passenger door creak open, then the scuffle of boots on pavement. A second later he saw and heard the driver’s side swing open. And to the front the sounds the dead were making got exponentially louder, giving the Hercules running up on their six a run for its money.
***
Cade shouldered the door open, twisted his upper body, and wrapped both hands around the grab bar near his head. Then, with the steady reports of Lopez’s silenced weapon reassuring in his ears, and the spent brass pinging off the hood and roadway, he tightened his grip and lifted his weight from the seat. Being careful not to bang his foot into the doorframe, he angled the bulky size twelve around, swung his good leg after, and pulled himself to a standing position.
Testing his ankle’s ability to support his full weight, he let go completely, wavered but didn’t fall. Next, with one hand on the door, he tested his full weight. The pain came on sudden and fierce. Pulsed up his leg, transited his ribcage, rattling his senses. Like he’d broken an age-old cardinal sin and stuck a fork in a toaster, the jolt attacked his central nervous system and was gone.
Hanging his head and taking slow, shallow breaths, he steeled himself for the test to come. Then, gripping the box-bed, he took three consecutive steps. Sweat beading on his forehead, he stopped near the rear wheel. He took in a lungful of rank air, pivoted on his right heel and immediately embarked on the three-step return trip. He certainly wouldn’t be dancing anytime soon. But he was fairly confident if need be he could make it from the Chevy to the rescue bird unaided.
While he’d been testing his ankle, the Hercules had slowed considerably and was within a hundred yards, nose wheel rolling along the dashed yellow lines off to their left, its huge six-bladed propellers whirling so fast an optical illusion was created making them seem to bend and warp like something from Dr. Seuss’s imagination.
He received a tap on the shoulder and turned to see Ari and Jasper standing behind Cross, his black uniform now a light shade of ochre. The special agent bent low and yelled to be heard over the airplane’s engines. “We’re going to have to clear the road.” He pointed beyond the airplane which had pulled to a complete stop fifty yards to the fore and was just beginning to turn in place. “One of those kids gets chewed up by a prop and we might not make it home.”
Cade glanced at the M4 on the seat next to him and shook his head at Cross while putting his palm up silently, indicating it was his problem to solve.
“I can take care of it for you, Captain,” pressed Cross, his mouth an inch from Cade’s ear.
Shaking his head side-to-side, eyes boring into Cross’s, Cade mouthed, “I can’t hear a thing.” He cast his eyes to the fallen Zs littering the road in front of the pick-up. He watched Lopez swap mags and continue firing, then mouthed, “I’ll take care of the little ones.” Then he nodded and motioned Cross and Jasper towards the box-bed as the air
plane’s rounded wingtip scythed the air overhead.
Jasper acted first. Reaching into the box-bed, he wormed his arms under General Gaines and cradled the corpse close to his chest.
Using the M4 as a crutch, Cade limped away from the truck, hoping to find a spot with a clear line of sight towards the end of the makeshift runway. Finally, after laboring twenty feet along the shoulder, he found an acceptable location and took a knee. He swiveled his head, checking for stray Zs, and found only half a dozen in his vicinity. But they were thirty yards away, below his position, on the feeder road and probably wouldn’t pose a problem. Wishing he had a spotter whom could watch his back, he drew the Glock—which held only one round—and placed it on the warm blacktop to his right. It would have to be his backup plan if the Zs caught hold of him. Next, he ripped his final magazine filled with thirty rounds of 5.56 hardball ammo from his chest rig, slapped it in the M4, and went flat to his stomach. He shifted around a little trying to get as comfortable as a guy with a pair of composite propellers slicing the air a handful of feet above his head could hope to get. Finding little comfort in the spot he’d chosen, he flipped the 3x magnifier in front of the holographic sight and searched for targets.
Chapter 41
Turning the KC-130 around in such tight confines took equal measures of skill and patience, and a couple of extra pairs of eyeballs watching out for anything that could snag a propeller, or wing pylon, or any one of the number of pieces of equipment mounted on the outside of the aircraft’s fuselage.
Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 21