Then, stacked neatly along the wall below the guns were, by Gus’s best estimation, several thousand rounds and at least thirty loaded magazines—mostly for the CQB rifles.
“This could not have been the old man’s hideout,” said Gus behind a low whistle.
Logan whistled also and spun a circle in the dead prepper’s armory. He wanted to say, I told you so, but refrained. Instead he intoned gleefully, “Let’s load this into the three trucks and get back to the compound ASAP.” He picked up one of the head sets. Looked closely at the disc-shaped throat mike and smiled. “These will do. Don’t you think?”
Eyes narrowing, Gus returned the smile, and nodded.
Jamie entered the room, still wiping away tears. Seeing this, Gus said, “I covered them up for your protection.”
“I looked anyway. Shouldn’t have though.” She began to bawl—a mournful, hair-raising dirge.
“Come here,” Logan said. Held his arms wide, took her in, gently wrapped her up and held on tight as sobs racked her body. After a couple of minutes she took a deep breath, fixed her red-rimmed brown eyes on his and mumbled, “Why? Why did she have to do that?”
“I’m guessing she couldn’t find it within herself to go upstairs and kill her folks ... I’m guessing the rotters were those kid’s grandma and grandpa,” said Logan, nuzzling her dark hair. “And if she did, then she’d have to expose the kids to the world up there.”
“Let’s get cracking,” urged Gus. “We’ve got lots of stuff to hump upstairs ... and we are burning daylight down—”
His appeal was abruptly interrupted by the long, drawn-out wail of the Tahoe’s siren.
Gus backtracked to the container with the electronic gear, bent at the waist and looked hard at the monitor. “The gate looks clear,” he hollered. “Maybe she’s just lonely. You two get going. I’m right behind you.”
***
With Jamie in tow, Logan snaked through the unfamiliar labyrinth, dodging hanging bulbs, piled-up stores, and bare metal bed frames along the way. As they entered the death room and passed the bodies of the woman and her kids, he sensed her slow and fall behind.
But he continued on.
He hit the stairs. Took them two at a time, and when he reached the top was blessed with a lungful of crisp clean air, nearly blinded by the light streaming in the open roller door, and greeted with two different noises. The first was familiar and in his face—the high-pitched piercing wail of the Tahoe’s siren a dozen yards in front of him. The other was less distinct, much farther away. At first it struck him as perhaps coming from a big-rig compression-braking on the state route below. But countering that theory was the fact, that save the quarry drive, there were no steeply-graded hills to necessitate such an action.
So he stood under the half-open overhead door, squinting against the light and waving, trying to get Jordan’s attention. But she was looking everywhere but in his direction. The siren blared on and then suddenly she turned her head and looked directly at him. Instantly her mouth formed a perfect ‘O’. A beat later the blue and red lights went dark and the siren went silent. At first the crushing silence hung heavy over the quarry, but without the competing racket of the siren the noise he’d first chalked up to brake compression increased in tempo, the decibels rising. Then a blur, all glass and matte-black paint entered his side vision and began to slew and slow incredibly, almost in defiance of gravity.
Somehow over the whine of the gas turbine to the fore, he heard from behind the resonant clatter of something metallic striking the floor. Then the distinct rattle of a swivel attached to a rifle’s sling. Next: the schlack-schlack of an AR charging handle being pulled back and sent home. Finally, urgent footsteps as Jamie and Gus formed up, one on either side of him.
Jordan had done her part.
Now his mind was racing—but not nearly as fast as the source of the second noise which had just ripped by mere feet above the steaming red earth, made a tight turn, and was now heading straight at them.
Then the noise rose to a pitch where he couldn’t think or even hear his own voice, which if he could, would be telling him to move, to take action.
But his feet seemed rooted, and to add to the sensory bombardment, gritty, silt-laden water blasted his eyes and face, blinding him further, feeling like a thousand needle pricks on his exposed skin. Then the air around him crackled—sonic tremors whose origin he had a hard time placing. He heard the person to his right groan like the wind had been knocked from their lungs. But before he could look in that direction he felt his bowler hat lift from his head. And then the last thing he felt—before the world went black—was a hand, soft and feminine, grasping ahold of his.
Chapter 61
Schriever AFB
Continuing the age-old battle between night and day, the sun had risen a few more degrees in the sky and, with each passing second, prevailed in burning off more of the unusual fog that had descended on the airbase overnight and seemed hell-bent on sticking around until noon.
Cade held on tight as Brook turned a hard right that caused the cart’s wheels to squeal against the glossy cement floor of the near-empty hangar whose jumbo-jet-accommodating-doors seemed to always be open. As she zippered between a number of static aircraft, Cade noticed a pair of the 160th SOAR Squadron’s MH-60 Black Hawk helicopters, panels popped open, their innards—wiring and hydraulic tubing and anodized aluminum fittings—exposed for all to see. Then his gaze found the lone surviving Ghost Hawk, its silhouette low and sleek, carbon fiber rotors drooping, sad looking—he could almost sense it yearning to once again get airborne.
But it wasn’t a living thing. A helicopter wasn’t capable of emotion. Maybe he was sensing Ari, somewhere, lamenting the fact that he’d been passed over for the job of ferrying a Special Forces team on a mission back East to find some very specialized equipment for the scientists who had just begun working on the Omega antiserum.
“Cade. You have that look. What are you thinking about?” asked Brook as she slowed the Cushman and craned around, searching for the massive black Ford F-650 pick-up that had been nosed in against the wall when last she’d seen it.
“Change.”
“Been lots of that lately.”
“Where’s the truck you told me about, Mom? Can’t be that big,” Raven said, moving her gaze around the hangar, a mirror image of her mom, “I don’t see it anywhere.”
Over the puttering engine noise and squeak of rubber echoing from the high rafters, Cade called from the rear seat for Brook to stop.
Brook complied. Flicked the switch, silencing the engine.
Cade untangled his crutches, rose to standing and clacked over to the spot where the truck had been parked. He checked his pockets and came out with the keys with the blue oval on the fob. Veins on his neck thick like cables, he turned a ragged spiral and then reared his head back and bellowed, “Whipper!”
Chapter 62
Eden Compound
Daymon continued hiking south along the fence line, consulting the map provided by Logan every now and again. He’d only been at it for a few minutes, and was making good time when he encountered the rotter. Trapped from the knees down in one of Duncan’s Punji pits, the thing hissed and clacked its teeth, straining mightily against the sharpened stakes in an attempt to get at the nearby fresh meat.
“Talking loud. Ain’t saying nothing,” said Daymon, drawing his machete from its sheath. He shrugged off the shotgun and approached the creature with caution. He didn’t know exactly how the traps worked, nor what they could do to a human, so he edged closer to get a better look.
But the undead thirty-something began to follow him—first the eyes—shark-like, never wavering. Then by twisting its torso around, exposing to Daymon presumably how it had died. Like most first turns he’d seen, it had defensive wounds, nicks and scratches and bites all up and down its arms. But that hadn’t killed this one. The coup de gras came in the form of a massive bleed out. Like many of the others he’d seen since fleeing Utah
in the early days of the outbreak, this one’s neck had become someone’s meal. He could see vertebra and shiny corded muscle and veins, masses of little snaking capillaries still clogged with congealed blood swaying and whipping with its every movement.
And as it flailed and grabbed at him, the sound of tendon and sinew snapping as rotted flesh and muscle was pitted against the sharpened saplings made Daymon wince.
Gotta do it. “Sorry, man,” he said as the machete scythed the air. He winced again as the sharp steel cleaved into the rotter’s temple and stuck there. Then he held on tight to the handle and let the weight of the monster and gravity do the rest.
As the thing hinged over, both bones in its lower leg snapped at odd angles, letting the body fall completely flat and causing Daymon’s blade to pop free.
Daymon wiped the blade on some nearby grass. Looked east up the road and saw that the other rotters were still cresting the apex of 39 near where Lev was. He swung his head around west and saw nothing to be worried about. Then he fished in his pocket and brought out his map. He rummaged in the other and produced a Sharpie on its last legs. He marked the map with a tiny faded DR, his own little reminder that the dead rotter was there and would have to be dealt with later.
***
Though Logan had only been gone for a short time, Duncan rotated the volume knob up a couple of clicks, thumbed the call button on the two-way radio, and tried to hail him.
Initially there was no response. He double-checked that the Motorola was tuned to channel 10-1, then tried a few more times, still getting nothing but static. He was about to give up when Lev came on and said Logan was out of radio range and wasn’t expected back for a couple of hours. “Copy that,” replied Duncan sharply. Reluctantly, he turned the volume low and tossed the radio on the chopper’s left seat. Took a sip from a bottled water. Lastly he scanned his surroundings and reburied his head in the technical manual for the DHS Black Hawk while trying his best to push the worry he was feeling for his baby brother to the back of his mind.
Chapter 63
Schriever AFB
Exactly ninety seconds after Cade began braying the first sergeant’s name, he heard distant footsteps, a kind of high-speed shuffling interspersed with harsh squeaks echoing from the steel ceiling and walls. He looked up from the scrolling black digital numbers on the face of his Suunto and fixed a smoldering gaze on the older man who had sworn days earlier that their differences were a thing of the past, and, in the man’s own words, “The hatchet has been buried.”
That Brook and Raven were covering their ears and no doubt mortified didn’t even make a blip on Cade’s give-a-shit radar. He was beyond livid and—like Luke being beckoned to the Dark Side by Vader—was in danger of losing out to his anger and following up on an earlier threat, the result of which would be one man dead, and him locked up in the security pod.
Cade cast his gaze on the second Cushman, where Sasha looked on mouth agape and Wilson was slumped in his seat, knees cresting the short windshield, only the top of his boonie hat showing.
Refocusing his attention on the approaching man, dressed in greasy coveralls and kneading a similarly-soiled rag, Cade stood tall as possible—considering the crutches jammed into his armpits—and said through gritted teeth, “Whipper, where in the eff did you put my Ford?”
“I’m hooking it up for you,” the crusty first sergeant answered with a sly smile.
“What ... you up-armoring it for me?”
“No need. Nothing’s getting into that thing. And last I checked, the Zs aren’t planting roadside IEDs.”
Grimacing, Cade said, “You’d be surprised at what you’d encounter outside the wire.”
Whipper made no reply.
Cade looked at Brook and shook his head. He jangled the keys at Whipper and said, “I have these. How’d you move the rig?”
“Same way we move aircraft around here. Follow me.”
Wanting to exhibit zero weakness, Cade clunked along double-time and caught up to Whipper. They passed the Ghost Hawk, with the procession of Cushman carts creeping behind them. Then they passed by Whipper’s battered yellow door and stepped onto the tarmac with the carts still shadowing them. “Here she is,” said Whipper proudly, like he was showing off a piece of artwork or a new grandkid. “They’re just about finished with her.”
Chapter 64
Eden Compound
The second Daymon’s eyes snapped open, a vague sense of unease descended over him, a feeling that something was definitely wrong—but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.
Considering the nightmare he’d just been starring in, and the fact that he was once again inside the metal cocoon that, for the time being, he begrudgingly called home, the realization that he wasn’t perspiring profusely or fighting his demons for every breath came at a great surprise to him. Amazing, he thought to himself, how a copious amount of fresh air coupled with a good deal of strenuous exercise can knock a guy out. But the same thing held true when he’d been fighting fire in his old life. Cutting back brush and preparing fire-breaks had always had the same exact effect—instantaneous deep sleep—no matter the cramped one-man-tent nor his proximity to the all-too-real danger of being burned to death.
He passed the time waiting for the cobwebs to dissipate by listening to Heidi’s breathing and staring towards the ceiling that he knew was there but couldn’t see. Her respiration was measured—slow, and steady—and from the sound of it, she was experiencing a good round of much needed REM sleep. For a brief second he contemplated waking her, and just as quickly decided to let her be. That it was nearing noon had no bearing on his decision. The woman had been through a lot since the fall of Jackson Hole. Nothing wrong with a little sleeping in. Besides, he thought, down here, without a watch, there’s no way of knowing whether it’s day or night.
After finding his boots in the dark, he felt around and snatched up his shotgun and machete. Maintaining a modicum of stealth, he made it through the door and into the outer passage, leaving Heidi still sound asleep inside.
Meaning to go topside, he turned the corner, passed by Phillip who was still pulling time on the radios, and ran headlong into Duncan.
The two men, moving in opposite directions, bounced off of each other.
Rubbing his sternum, Daymon said, “Whoa, Trigger.” He hiked up his shirt and was relieved to find that his pink “pet worms”—as Heidi had taken to calling the scars on his abdomen—hadn’t split open again. Then, as he set his gaze on Duncan, a cold ball formed in his gut. Since the virus and its undead consequences had swept the nation, he’d seen this look on people’s faces more times than he cared to remember. The usually rosy-cheeked cowboy was pale—stark white—like he’d just rubbed elbows with Death himself.
Duncan removed his glasses and wiped the lenses. Then, as if fighting some dire emotion, he took a deep breath and said, “This is one of those be-careful-what-you-wish-for moments, because I’m here to tell you that I’m taking you up on your offer.”
Saying nothing, Daymon pinned his dreads behind his ears and held his breath. Finally, mind going a mile a minute, he exhaled but remained silent, stoic in the face of the coming fight with Heidi which he knew making the correct decision here and now was apt to bring on. But still, he owed the old man for going out of his way and delivering him to his little house in Driggs. For if he’d never made it home and got ahold of Lu Lu, he’d never have made it to Jackson Hole and reconnected with Heidi in the first place. So, though he’d expected the reconnaissance flight to be tomorrow, he had no choice but to say yes right here and now.
“Take some time. Mull it over,” Duncan said with a thick drawl. “And then I’ll see you topside in five.” His face relaxed a bit but his body language—stooped shoulders, head hanging ever so slightly—was unchanged.
The sound of a chair scooting back broke the silence, and Daymon noticed Phil staring at him from behind Duncan’s elbow.
“Yes, I’ll go up with you,” Daymon finally said, c
ausing Duncan to double-take and make an instant about-face where he stood. “But why today? Why right now? And why in the eff do you look like you just saw a ghost?”
Chapter 65
Schriever AFB
The twin-engine, tandem-rotor Chinook MH-47, measuring ninety-nine feet from nose to tail, and nearly thirty feet from tarmac to the top mast of the rear rotor, made the oversized Ford F-650 parked alongside look like a child’s toy.
At first glance, Cade couldn’t see what Whipper and his ground crew had done to the rig. But by the time he had hobbled within spitting distance, it was obvious to him what the wispy-haired sergeant had in mind. Before he could mount any kind of a protest, Whipper had closed the distance and started yammering—more in the interest of self-preservation than an act of cordiality. When the small talk was out of the way, Cade said, “What the hell has gotten in to you, Whipper?”
Whipper smoothed back the white hair that to Cade seemed to be getting lighter and thinner by the day. He raised his hands shoulder high and said, “I’m sorry. I thought I’d take the initiative ... do you a favor. I kind of feel like I still owe you for what you endured the other day. Losing Sergeant Maddox on your watch and all.”
Checking his rising anger, Cade made no reply.
“Hear me out,” said Whipper, hands on hips. “I did some thinking”—for a change, Cade thought—“even in that big rig of yours, the second you get outside the wire you’ve got three things working against you—”
“More like three hundred million. And they’re all dead,” countered Cade. He flicked his gaze to Raven and then to Brook, who was giving him the look that all women seemed to have been born knowing how to deliver. It was obvious she wanted to be in the loop—yesterday. He shrugged, adjusted his stance on the crutches, and returned his attention to Whipper.
Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 31