Before Daymon could reply, a voice was emanating from the radio in Duncan’s pocket.
“Duncan here,” he answered. “We’re at Daymon’s place. He’s listening in.”
“Roger that,” Lev said. Then, skipping platitudes, he launched into a lengthy situation report.
Hearing about Seth taking the charcoal from the fire pit and having a good hunch what the man had been up to, Cade looked to Duncan. “Have Lev go inside and check on Seth.”
Duncan lifted his thumb off the Talk button. Speaking directly to Cade, he said, “For what? So he can look over our budding artist’s shoulder and critique a still life?”
Cade explained exactly what he would do with said hunk of charcoal if he were in Seth’s shoes.
“Dang, Captain America,” said Daymon. “Someone has been watching waaaay too much CSI.”
Cade said nothing.
Someone’s fart shattered the still and echoed about the foyer.
Cheeks reddening and on the receiving end of another of Taryn’s sharp elbows, Wilson cast his gaze toward the ceiling and ignored the incredulous stares being directed his way.
Shooting the redhead a harsh look, Duncan said, “The nickel tour. And some gas masks, please.”
“Nickel tour commencing,” said Daymon. “Gas masks are in the panic room.” Breathing through his nose, he shouldered his rifle and beckoned for his visitors to follow him up the staircase.
Chapter 15
Iris kept within the tree line and limped east, the still ascending sun playing peek-a-boo with her through the swift-moving cloud cover. After freeing herself from the trap, she had sought to distance herself from the vicinity as fast as her bad leg would allow, stopping only to clear her eyes of sweat and tears. Initially the pain had been so near to the surface any weight she put on her toes nearly knocked her out on her feet. Eventually, however, the throbbing subsided and the waves of pain that came with it were supplanted by a creeping numbness. In a matter of minutes, the undergrowth thinned and she was on a game trail and trekking along eastbound at a fair clip.
Keeping pace with her on one side was a dense thicket that looked to have been a source of food for whatever species of four-legged creatures which frequently transited the west/east running trail. What leaves that hadn’t already fallen victim to the changing seasons were now nibbled down to nubs. And further proof the trail was used often, every few feet she would spot tufts of light brown fur trapped on the rusty barbed wire fence opposite the rambling thicket.
Beyond the fence was a knee-high ditch. Bordering the ditch and dotted with clumps of vibrant green moss and beaten-down grass was a wide gravel shoulder. Running parallel to the shoulder was a two-lane road divided by a double solid yellow. Must be near a hill, she thought, pausing again to rest. Only place besides a blind corner UDOT would think it prudent to forbid passing on a rural road usually closed in the winter. With all the stupid asses texting and driving before the purge, she mused, the powers that be would have been better off putting up a sign saying: Pass a car here and you’ll likely come grill to grill with an eighteen-wheeler hauling logs and your decapitated head will take a tour of your backseat. Can’t fix stupid. A wide grin parted her pursed lips and she cackled, startling herself. But you can purge ‘em.
Soon the trees closed back in on the game trail and clumps of grabby undergrowth slowed her advance. Didn’t matter, though. At this point she couldn’t feel anything of her leg from the knee down. It felt as if she was swinging a hock of ham to and fro.
Eventually Iris came to a fence identical to the one bordering the road and had to make a decision. Confident she’d hear engine noises long before a vehicle was upon her and be able to go to ground and cover herself in leaves just as she’d done in the past, she stepped on the lower wire strand with her good foot, forced the bad leg through, and ducked her head between the parted strands. On the other side, she scooted into the ditch on her butt and scrabbled up the opposite side on all fours, the dead weight of her right leg carving a deep, bloody furrow in the ditch’s muddy wall.
Parched and out of breath, she sat on the shoulder of the paved two-lane and took an MRE pound cake and bottle of water from her vest pocket.
The sun was really breaking through now, causing curls of steam to rise like dragon’s breath from the road’s ruddy surface. As she ate and drank, a pair of ravens took station in a tall fir across the road. “Go to hell, you black buzzards,” she said, tossing the empty brown wrapper in their general direction.
Finished with the water, she chucked the empty bottle at the wrapper and then shuffled around on the roadway until she was again on her hands and knees. With considerable effort, she hauled her two-hundred-pound frame off the road. After swaying in place for a long ten-count with the birds cawing at her the entire time, she cupped her hands and shouted, “I’m not roadkill.” Then, to prove the declaration, she took a few tentative steps along the soft shoulder.
Through trial and error and after bloodying both knees and one elbow she found that if she took one step forward with her left foot, then swung her dead leg forward pendulum-like and let it drop to the road like a fleshy anchor, she could keep her forward momentum up without adding more road rash to the growing collection.
***
After trudging the road for some time with her head down and fully absorbed in the awkward and exhausting task walking had become, she caught a whiff of death riding the wind at her back. Dropping anchor so to speak, she planted her feet a shoulder’s width apart, turned her head, and walked her gaze up the road to the apex of a right-hand turn she guessed to be a quarter of a mile back. There, trundling the center line in her direction, was a pair of purged. Barely clothed, their pallid bodies stood out starkly against the tree- and foliage-cluttered backdrop. The steady breeze out of the west that had helped to alert her to their presence also stood their fine wisps of hair on end, making it seem as if a couple of drunken, mad scientists were stalking her.
Better than a hostile search party, she conceded, letting her gaze roam the fence, ditch, and length of road she’d just traversed. On the fence where she had wormed through, a scrap of orange nylon from her vest was stuck fast to one of the rusty barbs. And starting on this side of the fence on through the ditch and all the way to where she was standing, a meandering trail of feathers marked her progress like breadcrumbs. While the feathers in the ditch and on the grass beside the shoulder didn’t really draw the eye in, the ones stuck to the drying road were impossible to miss. To solve the problem she quickly removed the vest and turned it inside out.
Seeing that the purged were gaining ground on her, she zipped the vest to her neck and struck out east again.
***
Iris plodded ahead, stopping only when she came upon a bullet-riddled sign rising up beside the eastbound lane. On the sign were the driving distances to Woodruff, Randolph, and Bear River.
With a renewed sense of purpose, and a good hundred-yard lead on her pursuers, Iris put her hand in her pocket and caressed the smooth surface of the two-way radio she’d pilfered from a milk crate underneath the plywood desk. Replacing the batteries with the fresh ones she’d taken from the storeroom would have to wait. For now, she was content with the knowledge that the electronic lifeline was in her possession and it had lit up and emitted a soft hiss of static when she had powered it on inside the compound.
A few more miles and I’ll put you to use.
A crooked grin formed on her face and then she let loose with a tortured cackle that sent the nosy ravens winging away for good.
Chapter 16
Daymon stood on the travertine-tiled landing at the top of the stairs and waited for the others to join him. The massive expanse spread out before him was five-sided and shaped like home plate on a baseball diamond. Roughly twenty feet to his fore and offset a few feet to the right, two walls came together to form its point. The tray ceiling overhead was finished with ornate crown molding. Running from the stairs to the far wall on Da
ymon’s right was a waist-high rail of dark wood and gleaming white balusters. And dead ahead from where the stairs spilled to the landing was a shadow-filled hall leading away to the rear of the upper level.
“Your new nickname,” said Duncan as he mounted the final step, a little winded, “is Daddy Longlegs.”
Daymon grinned and ran one hand provocatively from hip to knee. “They get me where I need to go in a hurry.”
“And your new nickname is Tree Sloth,” said Cade as he prodded Duncan to move aside. “I’ve seen a double amputee summit a set of stairs faster than you.”
“I really do miss the back and forth banter between you two,” said Daymon.
“Enough to go back to sleeping underground?” quipped Duncan.
Daymon threw a visible shudder. “Not in a million years.”
Once Taryn and Wilson made the landing, Daymon began the tour by pointing to the pair of doors on the far-right wall. “Manny’s kids’ rooms are three times the size of anything I ever had. Their televisions and electronic toys … top notch newest shit. I thought I walked into a Best Buy first time I set foot inside there.” He gestured to the wall between the widely spaced doors. “Behind that is a huge Jack and Jill bathroom.”
“Where’s the other egress?” asked Cade.
Daymon led them past the closed doors. At the far end of the tiled landing was a hall branching off to the left. “This feeds to another stairway.”
Cade nodded approvingly.
Wilson asked, “Is it as big as the one up front?”
Daymon shook his head. “Nope. It’s utilitarian. Just a couple runs of stairs that turn in on themselves and come out near a mudroom and pantry.”
“What about fields of fire from this level?”
Smiling, Daymon looked to Cade. “Delta Boy is always thinking two steps ahead.”
“Three or four, at least,” said Duncan, clapping his friend on the back. “Isn’t that right?”
“I’ve been known to have a game plan,” Cade responded. He paused and looked over the railing. Long drop. “I’ve also been known to improvise,” he added, already thinking of ways to shore up the front doors.
“This way,” said Daymon, leading them back the way they’d come. “I think you’ll approve of what our car dealer’s done with the place.” He came to a pair of closed doors to the left of where the walls formed the tip of the landing and threw them open with a flourish. Flicking the lights on, he said, “Behold the guest room. Hell of a footprint, eh?”
Cade padded into the room ahead of the others. The carpet underfoot was thick and bounced back quickly, the imprints his Danners made disappearing as he crossed the room to the window set over a massive California king bed. He skirted left of the bed and pulled aside the heavy curtains. Though they weren’t blackout items like the ones at Schriever, they were still a dark shade of gray and looked up to the task.
“We never bother with the shades,” said Daymon. “No need. With the shutters closed you could fire up a disco ball and no light is gonna escape.”
Curious, Cade found the mechanism—a thin rope working an overhead pulley—and drew the curtains open. Sure enough, only four clusters of light—pinpricks, really—infiltrated the closed storm shutters, one at each corner by the hinges. All in all, looking at the back side of the matte-black shutters was like staring into a mine shaft.
Cade asked, “How easy are they to open?”
“Step aside, kind sir,” said Daymon, obviously happy to show off the whats and hows of his new above-ground digs. “Throw these latches—” he reached up and simultaneously thumbed two levers away from each other—“then you haul the two window panes open, push, and voilà.” Daymon did indeed push on the shutters, which caused them to swing open swift and silent, allowing a chilly draft ripe with the smell of death to pour into the room.
Cade covered his nose and edged closer to the window.
Spreading his arms in front of the open window, Daymon said, “From here you can pick off anything that moves behind the house.” Gesturing to his left. “You’ve got a wide-open field of fire from the garage on past the breezeway and all the way to the fence line.” Pointing at the firs bordering the house on the opposite side, he added, “Solar-powered motion sensors over here alert us to anything approaching.”
Arms crossed, Cade said, “Distances?”
“I haven’t had a chance to pace off distances yet—”
Interrupting Daymon from the opposite side of the divided picture window, Wilson said exactly what Cade and Taryn had to have been thinking up until now: “What the eff is with all the rotters in the pasture?”
Cade’s second glance had already told him more than the first. Down below, perhaps fifty yards from the rear of the house, were no less than twenty of the dead things. Four were fresh turns that showed little signs of decomposition. A pair of males clinging to the fence were horribly burnt. In places their blistered dermis was sloughing off, which left charred flesh and bone exposed to the elements. The remaining Zs were very badly decomposed first turns. Recent precipitation had left their hair plastered to their scalps and what passed for clothing—just soaked scraps of graying fabric—clinging to their emaciated bodies. Even across the distance he could hear their hoarse, dry cries riding a wind gust which threaded its way through the cyclone fence keeping them at bay.
“More watchrotters,” conceded Daymon. “I think some of them may have been friends of Adrian’s.”
Taryn said, “A few do look pretty fresh.”
Duncan said, “Wishful thinking. If they came all the way here from Bear Lake, they would show a lot more road wear than they do.”
Closing the shutters, Daymon said, “Before we go to get what you came for, I want to show you the panic room.”
Wondering what the heck a “panic room” was, Wilson and Taryn exchanged glances.
“Thought you weren’t going to be caught dead in there,” drawled Duncan.
“I was joking. I can handle the panic room. The attic …that’s a different story. No way,” he said emphatically, his mini dreads whipping along with the side-to-side movement his head was making. “No effin way you’re getting me up there.”
Daymon led them from the guest suite to the set of double doors nearest the top of the stairs. He hinged these doors inward slowly while saying, “I’m still not at all comfortable staying in this opulence. It’s like one of those Presidential Suites at the Bellagio in Vegas.”
Envy evident in the tone, Wilson asked, “You’ve stayed in one?”
“Nope,” answered Daymon as he led them past the foot of the massive California king bed. “But I did see The Hangover about a dozen times. That Zach what’s-his-name dude is one funny cat.”
Ignoring the banter, Cade let his gaze wander the rectangular room. At twelve o’clock to the entry, flanked by a pair of antique nightstands, was a bed that looked capable of sleeping four comfortably. It was unmade, the comforter and sheets nearly spilling off onto the carpeted floor. Evenly spaced above the bed’s ornately carved mahogany headboard were four large windows. The drapes were burgundy with gold thread and parted to reveal the backsides of shutters identical to the ones over the windows in the guest suite. Remembering how glitzy Vegas had appeared on the outside, Cade thought: Presidential Suite indeed.
Pausing by the foot of the bed, he looked left through a hall where a pair of cream-colored double doors stood open. Lit up by light spilling through a skylight, the floors gleamed white—Italian marble, he presumed. At the rear of the room, also splashed by diffuse light pouring in from overhead, was a clawfoot tub and a walk-in shower surrounded with thick glass panels.
While Daymon went on about how many pair of shoes Manny Hollah and his wife had been keeping in the closet of their vacation home—all, unfortunately, three sizes too small for Heidi and not even in the ballpark for him—Cade fixed a stare on a strange alcove twenty feet to the right of the head of the bed. Centered equidistant from the windows and wall and pushe
d back into the dead space was a gilded chair upholstered with fabric the color of United States currency. Above the pale green chair and centered perfectly on the wall was an expensive-looking oil featuring hunting hounds and men on horseback. Affixed to the wall above the painting was a tiny spotlight not currently illuminating anything.
It wasn’t the chair or painting that piqued his interest. They were aligned with everything he’d seen so far: over the top. It was the unnecessary placement of the wall in relation to the guest suite next door that got him thinking. To the casual observer, the items were placed there to fill in what appeared to be twelve useless square feet of an already humongous room. But Cade knew better. While Daymon led the group from the studio-apartment-sized walk-in closet to the spa-like bathroom, Cade padded in the opposite direction toward the alcove.
Chapter 17
Barely slowing during the transition from side street to driveway, Dregan whipped the Army surplus Chevy Blazer onto the cement parking pad fronting his three-story home. Stopping hard a foot shy of the fortified garage door, he threw the transmission into Park, killed the tired engine, and glanced up at the front door and pair of windows flanking it.
The blinds were drawn shut.
Elbowing the camouflage SUV’s door open, he thought: Good boy, Peter.
A quick conning of the house across the street told Dregan that his son, Gregory, had beaten him here from the gate. A lone Humvee painted in woodland camouflage—soft-edged brown and green shapes shot through with black—was nosed in against a two-car garage. Unlike Dregan’s home, the front door to his son’s home was on the ground level at the end of a narrow, paved walk bordered by beds of flowers that looked to have been dead since summer.
The door hinged open and Gregory’s six-foot frame filled up the doorway. Shod in black leather boots and wearing a red flannel shirt over tan work pants, the thirty-three-year-old was dressed for the job he had chosen for the day.
Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 12): Abyss Page 9