Voyage of the Dead - Book One Sovereign Spirit Saga

by Forsyth, David

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” said Scott as he turned the helicopter and climbed above the ridge so they could all see both sides of Pedregal and the harbor below. “We’ll draw the zombies away from the gate to the property. It’s hooked into the solar power backup, if you built to plan?”

  “Damned right it is,” George confirmed.

  “Good,” Scott continued. “So we’ll drop you off, circle around so they don’t gang up there. We’ll draw as many as we can down the hill towards the beach on the Pacific side. Then, when you give the signal that you have your people ready to go, we’ll come back up to give you cover. Then you open the gate and drive that RV down the other side of the hill to the harbor. It’s a rear engine diesel pusher, right?”

  “Yes, it is,” George confirmed.

  “Excellent. So you should be able to push anything out of the way without any damage to the drive train. Just keep the wheels operational and on the road. I’m making one more pass over the harbor side of the hill now, so you can see the bottle necks. Just remember that your only priority is to get down to the harbor. Screw any damage to the RV or anything in your path. Just get there. Got it?”

  “Fucking-A,” seemed to be George’s stock answer now. “Give me time to gather them up though, OK?”

  “Roger that,” said Scott. “But you need to remember that they might not all be the people you think they are. They could be infected already. Even if they aren’t zombies yet, just coming in contact with them might be your own death sentence. But, as long as you know and accept that risk, I’ll give you the ammo clips for that pistol. Still want ‘em.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Allen,” said George Hammer. “And I’m damned glad you’re offering to back me up. Hell, if Millie and I hadn’t gotten that bonus trip on your ship, we would all be down there in a world of hurt. So let’s do this!”

  “Tally ho!” said Mick Williams, as he pitched the chopper’s nose down to sweep over the harbor once more. “Let’s attract some attention!” The helicopter swooped down into a hover above Cabo Wabo, a famous bar and grill. The main street immediately filled with zombies. Mick moved the helicopter slowly down the main drag, towards Cost-Co a mile away. The zombie horde followed. “Follow the leader!” called Mick Williams. “I feel like the Pied Piper.”

  Suddenly Scott and Mick were surprised to hear a radio transmission. It was coming in on the emergency channel, so it was automatically fed into their headsets by the high tech com gear on the chopper. A Mexican accented voice said, “Unidentified helicopter over Cabo San Lucas, this Cabo San Lucas Tower broadcasting on 121.5. Please identify immediately, over.”

  “Shit,” said Scott. “I’ll handle this.” He reached for the radio controls and continued, “Cabo Tower, this is Bell November Hotel Three Two Foxtrot. Copy. Over.”

  “Three Two Foxtrot,” came the quick reply, “Divert immediately to Cabo San Lucas Airport, over.”

  Scott smiled at Mick and turned to give a calming gesture to the others onboard before replying, “Negative, Cabo Tower. We are conducting a search and rescue mission. Please clear the airspace. We are declaring an emergency, over.”

  “What is the nature of your emergency, Three Two Foxtrot?” was the immediate reply.

  “Zombies,” replied Mick before Scott could stop him.

  “Please repeat, Three Two Foxtrot,” said the voice on the radio.

  “Shut up, Micky,” said Scott on the intercom before activating the transmitter. “Three Two Foxtrot is engaged in a search and rescue mission. Unable to divert.”

  “Three Two Foxtrot, you are ordered to divert to Cabo San Lucas Airport immediately. If you do not land, you will be declared hostile and force will be used to bring you down.” Scott and Mick exchanged troubled glances. What was this? Then Scott smiled and signaled that he would respond.

  “CSL Tower, Three Two Foxtrot is on a mission of mercy to rescue a personal friend of the President of the United States of America and with approval of the President of Mexico. Call Mexico City, if you need confirmation. Do not interfere with our mission.”

  “What the fuck?” exclaimed Mick on the intercom.

  “If you’re going to bluff,” relied Scott smugly, “Bluff big. Besides, they have no chance of getting anyone in Mexico City to confirm or deny right now.” The response on the radio was slow in coming. By now the helicopter was approaching the most popular bars along the beach and zombies were boiling out onto the streets and sand.

  Then the accented radio voice spoke again, “Copy, Three Two Foxtrot. Are you here to rescue Oprah?” Scott and Mick exchanged another surprised look, then grins.

  Scott smiled as he said, “I am not at liberty to define our objective, except to assure you that it is a purely humanitarian search and rescue mission. Please do not interfere.” There was an even longer pause.

  “Roger, Three Two Foxtrot. Stand by. We will send troops to assist you.”

  “Oh shit,” said Scott on the intercom. “They are only ten minutes from the harbor by road, unless something slows them down. We need to haul ass. I have the stick!” They had reached the main intersection from the beach road towards the airport and beyond to La Paz. “Negative, Cabo San Lucas Tower,” he continued on the radio. “We have this mission under control. Do not endanger yourselves.”

  Scott kicked in the rudder, lowered the nose, and aimed inland along the road leading to the airport. At least a thousand zombies were now swarming along the surface road after them. Glancing back, Scott added, “I hope those soldiers stay put. But if these freaks don’t slow them down, I don’t know what will! OK, guys, let’s rock. Just pop as many skulls as you can!” Clint and Mark both leaned out the side doors, held in-place by their safety harnesses, and began going for head shots among the mass of zombies behind them as Scott pulled into a hover 100 feet above the mob. He saw at least a dozen zombies go down and hundreds turned to swarm over them in a feeding frenzy.

  The helicopter swooped low for the next mile, and then angled westward to loop around the mountain of Pedregal, back to the Pacific Ocean. Quickly accelerating to 150 mph, they swung out over the new resorts on the Pacific side of Pedregal. By now the helicopter was climbing and it was pleasingly hard to tell the difference between zombies reaching for a snack and normal people begging for help from their windows and balconies. It was still clear, however, that everyone down there was attracted to the chopper. Scott banked back towards the mountain of Pedregal and zeroed in on his newly finished cliff-side home. He could see Hammer’s RV in the side yard, but did not see any obvious signs of life.

  “Get ready, George,” said Scott. “We’re coming in hot. You’ll only have a couple of minutes to find your family and get the RV moving. Got it?”

  “Got it!” responded George with a shout. “Let’s do this!”

  “Fuck’n A,” Mark concurred from his position at the open door on the left side of the helicopter as they passed through a pillar of smoke from a large house that was burning below. “I love the smell of napalm in the morning,” he added.

  “All-mighty, All-mighty,” said Scott with a tight grin. “PBR Street Gang is in hot.”

  “Don’t worry dudes,” Clint chimed in, “Charlie don’t surf!”

  “I’ve got the stick, LZ coming up,” Mick said and Scott relinquished control to the professional pilot. None of the banter among old friends who had all watched Apocalypse Now a dozen times or more helped George Hammer’s nerves, but he seemed to harden when Scott leaned around to hand him the three loaded magazines and a box of extra bullets for the Desert Eagle pistol.

  “Terminate with extreme prejudice,” said Scott in a serious tone. When George gave him a confused look, Scott added, “Calling it murder would be like handing out speeding tickets at the Indie 500.” They were all talking like they were in a war movie. But maybe that’s exactly what this was. It was strange how circumstances could alter people. Perhaps when the choices came down to living or dying, the survivors became method actors.

>   “You guys are fucking nuts,” said George. “But let’s do this!” The helicopter swooped along the cliff and came to a hover over the RV in Scott’s driveway. Mick dropped smoothly to within a few feet above the vehicle and Scott signaled George to jump off with a thumbs up.

  As George took off his headphones and cautiously jumped onto the roof of the RV, Mark asked, “You want me to go with him?”

  “Hell, no,” replied Scott. “We’re the top cover. No contact with anyone on the ground. Got it? Besides, your son is back on the ship and he might kill me if I left you here!”

  “Roger that,” said Mark. “Charlie Mike.”

  “Charlie Foxtrot Mike,” confirmed Scott. Continue the F-ing Mission. “I have the stick,” said Scott as he pulled up on the collective to rise from the house and distract any nearby zombies away from the gate.

  *****

  Interlude in Hell

  El Segundo Water Tower: 7:18 AM, April 2, 2012

  Carl Stiller was tired of sitting on top of the water tank. He could probably survive there for several weeks, since he had found an access hatch into the water tank. So now he had plenty of water to drink and to mix with the dehydrated food from the backpack. He could even climb down into the tank for a swim. But he felt helpless and impotent up here, staring down at a city that had become a ghost town filled with blood sucking monsters that used to be human. Carl didn’t want to watch them. He wanted to kill them, just as they had killed his wife and his world.

  The streets seemed quiet this morning, compared to yesterday. He moved slowly around the catwalk on the water tank, scanning with the binoculars for any signs of intelligent life. The water tower, which was placed on top of a hill, provided a panoramic view of the South Bay. He could see that the 405 freeway was jammed with apparently abandoned cars, as were most of the major surface streets. He had been lucky to get off the main roads early yesterday. Nevertheless, Carl spotted quite a few vehicles that were still moving about on side streets. Most of them were trucks or SUVs that were able to plow their way through the herds of zombies that invariably converged on them. But there were also a few smaller cars that sped through the gauntlet in mad dashes for escape. Carl watched several of them fail miserably and either crash or be engulfed in zombies. After a few minutes of observation he couldn’t spot a single unclogged road leading out of El Segundo, so he decided that anyone trying to drive away from here was doomed. His first vaguely formed plan of finding a vehicle with keys in its ignition was a non-starter.

  Pillars of smoke to the east indicated that the fires were still burning and probably spreading out of control. But there were no major fires nearby and the wind was still blowing inland from the ocean, less than a mile to the west. The scent of the ocean air was almost strong enough to mask the growing smells of decomposing flesh, at least on top of the water tower. But Carl knew that the stench of rotting corpses would only grow stronger as the day progressed. Perhaps there would be fewer bodies down near the beach.

  Carl moved to the west side of the water tank and scanned the area between there and the ocean. Grand Avenue ran down into the heart of town before winding down to the beach, but it was teaming with zombies. So were many of the cross streets in town. He noticed, however, that there seemed to be fewer zombies roaming around the top of the hill by the water tower than there were farther down the hill, even though the density of houses was pretty much the same. He should be able to get away from the tower safely, but once he started down off the hill into town his chance of survival would shrink quickly.

  Finally he moved to the south side of the water tower and saw a possible escape route. Lomita Street, next to which the water tower was perched, ended two and a half blocks down the hill at El Segundo Boulevard. And beyond that was a seemingly strong fence and tree line surrounding a large oil refinery. Carl paused to inspect the refinery for the first time. The sides of the big storage tanks bore the emblem of Chevron. The property was huge, covering close to a square mile, bordering El Segundo Boulevard all the way to the beach, and it was fully fenced. Best of all, he couldn’t see a single zombie roaming the grounds within. That way led to safety. But how could he get there?

  Carl roamed silently around the catwalk of the water tower, looking down and around for any hint of assistance in the escape he was planning. Although he spotted a few zombies nearby, none of them ever looked up at him. They all seemed fixated on whatever was right in front of them at the time. However, he did witness one of them turning quickly and run towards a cat that had jumped from the roof of a house onto a trash can. Carl watched the zombie chase the cat around the side of the house and sent a silent prayer that the cat would escape and survive, adding a footnote to God to help him do the same.

  On his second circuit of the catwalk Carl spotted something in the parking lot below that had escaped his attention previously. He had already discounted the cars and trucks in the parking lot of the Water Department. They would all be locked and he had no idea where to look for the keys, especially without attracting the attention of nearby zombies. But now he noticed a utility golf cart tucked in next to the water tower. It would also need keys to drive it, but Carl doubted that it had locking steering and knew that it had a manual brake release. And all he wanted to do was get down the hill to the fence of the Chevron refinery. A new plan began to form in his mind.

  Chapter 5: Escape and Evasion

  “Only the foolish visit the land of the cannibals” – Maori Proverb

  George moved faster than he had in years. The cyclic thump of the helicopter rotors seemed to be amplified broadcasts of his own pounding heart beat. He rolled across the roof of the RV and reached for the ladder at the rear end. His descent was more like a controlled fall, but he landed on his feet and moved quickly to the door of the RV. It was locked. So he reached into his pocket for the keys as he was banging the door and yelling for his family.

  “Molly! Fred! Kids! It’s me!” There was no immediate response. But now the helicopter was pulling away, down and around to clear his escape route. The noise level fell. Time was critical. Were they even here? “Molly!!” he shouted even louder.

  “Daddy?!” came a cry from behind him. He turned and saw his daughter in an open window on the second floor of the house he had built for Mr. Allen. Thank God she was alive!

  “Yes, baby!” George bellowed. “Come down here! We have to leave right now!”

  “We can’t, Daddy,” yelled Molly. “Fred’s gone crazy! He’s one of them. He’s down there somewhere. I can’t bring the boys down!”

  “Shit,” said George quietly. “OK,” he yelled. “I’m coming to get you. Get ready. If I have to shoot Fred, I will. If he is one of them, it’s not Fred anymore. You understand? Thank God you knew enough to stay away from him when he changed. Just get ready to leave. I’m coming.”

  “OK, Dad,” Molly called. “We’ll be ready. But Fred is somewhere in the house, or maybe out there. Watch out! He’s like one of those monsters on TV.”

  “Don’t worry, Baby,” yelled George. “I’m armed and I’m coming for you and the boys.” He moved quickly from the RV to the side entrance of the house. It was unlocked. He held the handgun elevated, but at the ready. With heightened awareness he moved quickly through the kitchen towards the rear staircase. Having built this house, he knew every inch of it.

  George had thought his building days were over when he moved to Cabo five years ago. He had sold his construction business and house in Los Angeles to buy a condo and charter fishing boat in Cabo San Lucas. It was the fulfillment of his dream for retirement and it had been great, for a while. He became as familiar with running a fishing boat as he was with reading blueprints. He felt like Nick Nolte’s character in “Rich Man, Poor Man” and his wife had never seemed happier. Then the economy started to tank and his charter business took a nose dive. After a year of poor returns he decided to sell the boat and return to the construction business. It hadn’t been easy, but George had worked all of his contacts
to convince developers that he would be the best builder in Cabo. Scott Allen was one of the men who saw the value of having an experienced American contractor build his dream vacation home in Mexico. It was a decision that seemed very fortuitous for George right now.

  Yes, as the builder, George was familiar with every nook and corner of the house. He knew where every anchor bolt and shot pin had been installed. The floor plan of the house was like a head’s up display over his vision. Nobody knew this building like he did. Nobody could find a hiding place that he did not know, especially since most of the furniture had not been installed yet. No zombie was going to take him by surprise in this house!

  “Shit!” yelled George, as something leaped down behind him from an open access panel in the kitchen ceiling. He turned quickly and fired at point blank range. The 357 Magnum hollow point hit dead center on the figure that had dropped out of the crawlspace above the hard lid ceiling. But the creature didn’t go down. The man sized beast staggered back from the force of the shot, but then he leapt forward again. George recognized his son-in-law, Fred Marsh, at the same moment that he fired another round into the familiar face. This time Fred went down and stayed down.