Rampdog shook his head, but it was Underdude who spoke up from the back of the room.
“Rampdog is ex-army,” he explained. “He was a Sergeant with the First Cavalry Division. Did a decade in uniform, including a tour of Iraq. That’s why we sometimes call him Sarge. The rest of us have different backgrounds.” He gestured at the tall man who had stood guard at the door. “Bob here was a field technician for almost thirty years, and then taught himself computers. He’s the team’s mechanic and electrician. And he knows guns.”
Cutter nodded. And then Jillian asked quietly, “What about you?”
Underdude shrugged. “I’m a gun guy,” he said. “I load and sell ammo for a living – or at least I did until the world became over-run with zed’s. I did a lot of security work. That kind of thing,” he said vaguely.
Cutter frowned. “What about the guy in the kitchen?”
Rampdog shook his head wryly, and for the first time Cutter saw the hint of a mirthless smile break the across man’s granite features. “Mr. Knot is part of the team, but he’s a mystery,” he said. “No one knows much about his background, and no one cares. He’s good with a gun, and he’s smart. He’s a steady man to have around.”
Cutter nodded, then glanced up at the ceiling. “And the Scotsman?”
“Lone Wolf ain’t part of the team. Not yet, anyhow. We found him back in Draketown. He was holed up at a gas station, fighting off about a hundred zeds. We’re giving him a ride south.”
“Is that where you’re heading?” Samantha suddenly asked, her brow furrowed with feminine curiosity. She moved restlessly on the sofa, and Cutter felt the warmth of her body against him.
Rampdog nodded. “The team is heading for Serenity,” he said. “That’s where we’ll all meet up.”
There was a brief silence. Cutter heard two muffled stomps vibrate through the ceiling. Rampdog glanced sharply up at Bob and the older man disappeared up the stairs.
Rampdog dropped to his haunches and stared at the group on the sofa like they were all gathered around a campfire.
“We’re called Team Exodus,” he said, his eyes drifting from Cutter to Samantha and Jillian, and then slowly back to Cutter. “We’re a group of survivalists spread around the country who have been preparing for some kind of apocalypse for years. We’re armed and we’re organized,” he said, and there was a touch of pride in the man’s voice. “Right now we’re on our way south to rendezvous with the rest of the team. Not everyone is going to make it – but everyone is gravitating towards a place that can be defended and where we can start again. We call it Serenity.”
Jillian sat slowly forward, her eyes wide and almost mesmeric. “Where is this place?” she asked, her voice a subdued breathy whisper of sudden interest. “How far south is it?”
Rampdog had a folded brochure in his pocket. He spread it out on the floor. “It’s a place called Biltmore Estate outside of Asheville in North Carolina.”
The brochure was dog-eared and worn around the edges. The color had faded and flaked away along the crease lines and it was stained with sweat. Cutter looked carefully and saw a glossy picture of an elegant stately manor home set on rolling green fields and sculptured gardens.
Cutter narrowed his eyes. “What makes this place you’re going such a good location?”
Rampdog folded the brochure and tucked it carefully back into the pocket of his fatigues. “It’s an estate that was owned by a rich guy sometime in the past. Now it’s a mountain tourist resort,” he explained. “It’s fenced in – and it’s cold. In winter any zeds in the area will freeze.”
Underdude had been listening on in silence. He broke away from the group and went to the window for a moment to peer cautiously through a gap in the heavy curtains. Satisfied, he turned back and came to where Rampdog was crouched. “Sarge forgot to tell you the best thing,” Underdude added. “The estate has its own winery.”
Rampdog nodded. “Yeah. It has a winery. I figure alcohol is going to become more valuable than gold in the new world. It’s going to be currency.”
Jillian held up her hand to ask another question as if she was in school. “How many people do you have heading towards this Estate?” she asked. “It sounds big. Surely you can’t defend it between just the five of you.”
Rampdog’s expression tightened. He stared at Jillian for long moments of silence and his eyes became haunted. Finally he stood up stiffly and picked up the Bushmaster, as though the conversation was closed. He turned away, then seemed to change his mind. He turned back, and when he spoke again his voice was distant and disturbed.
“There are others,” he said. “Other people like us. And our families.”
“You have family?” Samantha asked.
Rampdog nodded. “My wife and son,” he said, and there was a sudden heaviness in his voice that surprised Cutter. “Maria and Matthew. They’ve been in Miami for the past three weeks. They’ll meet us there, if they are still alive. I’ve had no contact…”
“What about the others?”
Rampdog nodded. “Bob’s wife and one of his sons work in hospitals. They may not have survived the first wave of the virus. But if they have, they’ll join us at Serenity. We’re going to need people with medical skills as we rebuild. And he has another son in Atlanta and a daughter in Boston. We don’t know if they’re alive or not.”
At that moment Bob came down the stairs and stood tensely in the foyer by the front door. Rampdog went to him and the two men stood talking in quiet, urgent whispers for long moments. Cutter watched the men’s faces and sensed their apprehension. It was in the way the men held themselves, the strain on their faces and in the hardness of their eyes. Underdude went over and joined the huddle. Cutter glanced sideways at Samantha. Her eyes were darkening as though she too had sensed an escalating alarm.
Cutter saw Bob retreat back up the stairs. Underdude drifted past them and disappeared into the kitchen. Rampdog came back to the sofa, his expression suddenly taut and focused.
“There are zeds out on the road,” he said. “Lone Wolf has been tracking half-a-dozen of them. They’re coming back from the direction of the diner. They’re drifting at the moment, and there aren’t enough of them to bother us, but we’re back on alert.”
Cutter got to his feet and fumbled for his Glock. Rampdog put his hand on Cutter’s shoulder. “We can handle this. We don’t need you – but tomorrow these women will. So get some sleep while you can. That goes for all of you. At 0600 hours we’re moving out of here. We’ll get you back to the diner – and from there you are on your own.”
* * *
Rough hands shook Cutter, and he came awake with a sense of heavy foreboding and unease. He sat up quickly. The Scotsman, Lone Wolf, was standing over him.
Cutter rubbed at his face. He felt as though someone had thrown a handful of grit in his eyes.
“Good morning, Sunshine,” Lone Wolf said in a broad accent. He handed Cutter a small silver hip flask. “Drink up.”
Cutter swallowed a mouthful. It was whisky. He felt the fumes scald the back of his throat.
“Mother’s milk, that is,” Lone Wolf said as he tucked the flask back into his pocket. “And you’ll be needing more shortly. Mr. Knot has got some kind of stew warming on the camp stove. It tastes like shite.”
Cutter stretched tight weary muscles. “What time is it?” The rest of the team was moving with silent purpose around him.
“Almost six in the morning,” Lone Wolf said. “The sun’s almost up, and we’ll be on the move in about twenty minutes.”
Cutter nodded. He reached over and gently shook Samantha awake. She had fallen asleep on the sofa, curled up like a kitten, with her head resting on Cutter’s lap. She sat up slowly, her hair a messy tumble and her cheeks flushed. “Where’s Jillian?”
Cutter didn’t know.
“She’s in the kitchen,” Lone Wolf said. “She’s been helping with the stew.”
Behind them Rampdog stepped into the room. He came to where Samant
ha and Cutter were sitting. The Scotsman picked up their heavy bag and hauled it away towards the door. “I’ll be putting this on the back of the truck for you,” he said.
Rampdog watched the man leave.
“We move out in fifteen minutes,” he told Cutter, his tone brusque and his manner business-like. “There were some zeds drifting past the house last night, but we haven’t seen any more since. The plan is to get you back to the diner so you can be on your way. Did you have a car?”
Samantha nodded. “A little silver hatchback. We left it out front of the diner.”
Rampdog nodded. “And do you have a destination?”
“North,” Cutter said quickly. “Nowhere special. A town called Guthrie. Just a place about twenty miles north of the turnoff.”
Rampdog clenched his jaw, but his tone remained level. “Fair enough,” he said. Then he looked meaningfully back at Samantha. “If your destination isn’t all you expect it to be, you can come and find us in North Carolina,” he offered. “We’re heading down towards Newbridge today, and we’ll push on further south from there. By the end of the week we’ll be at Serenity.”
For a long moment no one spoke. Finally Cutter stood up. He held out his hand. “Thanks for getting us out of trouble last night at the diner – and thanks for everything you’ve done for us since.”
Rampdog narrowed his eyes in appraisal and shook Cutters hand. “You may just be competent,” he said grudgingly. “I hope to God you are. I also hope you know what you’re doing, because this girl is depending on you.” The man turned for the doorway and then looked back over his shoulder. “Jillian is coming to Biltmore Estate with us. She and Bob approached me while you were sleeping and I said yes. He’s a good man. He’ll take care of her.” Rampdog stomped out of the room without another word.
Cutter turned slowly back to Samantha. He wasn’t sure if he was offended or relieved.
“Your choice,” Cutter said. “You can go with the team if you want to. Jillian obviously feels safer with them than with me and I wouldn’t blame you if you felt the same. I’m sure they have room for one more attractive young woman…”
Samantha’s eyes narrowed and she glared at Cutter. Her whole posture changed, so that she thrust out one hip and put her hand on her waist. Her lips compressed to a thin pale line. “I’m not Jillian,” she said coldly. “I’m my father’s daughter. Don’t expect me to give myself away like a cheap toy for the sake of protection. I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees.”
Cutter almost flinched. There was genuine anger and defiance in Samantha’s tone that shocked him.
“We set out with daddy for the Garden of Eden, and that’s where he would want me to go – and you’re the man he wanted us to go with. So that’s where I’m going.”
Samantha and Cutter climbed aboard the back of the truck just as the sun was rising. Cutter shifted the black bag to a corner of the bed. Somehow it felt heavier. Lone Wolf, Underdude and Mr. Knot climbed onto the bed. Each man took up a firing position and re-checked their weapons.
Cutter looked around. “Where’s Jillian?”
Mr. Knot gave a curt nod of his head. “She’s riding up front,” he said.
The 4WD came out of the garage at speed. Bob had his foot down hard on the accelerator and the truck bounced out of the drive onto the deserted street. Jillian was wedged on the bench seat in the cabin beside Rampdog, and the truck swerved and swayed from side to side on big springs as Bob set the vehicle to each corner without ever slowing.
They hit the open road and raced back towards the diner.
The sunrise was spectacular: a riot of orange and red that blazed across the landscape and spilled light over the dark shapes of night. The sky overhead was pale blue and clear. Cutter felt the fresh breeze against his face and glanced at Samantha. She was staring ahead, the wind tossing and tangling her hair and pressing the thin fabric of her blouse against the firm shape of her breasts. She caught Cutter’s eye and somehow he read her expression as a challenge – maybe to be the man she saw him as – and to be more of a man than he saw himself.
Then she smiled, and it was so unexpected that Cutter found himself smiling back.
The truck veered off the road onto loose gravel and then skidded out front of the wrecked diner. The building was an empty shell. Broken glass littered the ground, and there were a dozen zombies lying still on the concrete, each of them with gaping huge wounds to their heads. The vehicle bounced and lurched over the bodies.
Bob braked hard and the 4WD slammed to a halt. Cutter and Samantha leaped off the back of the truck. Samantha went to the silver hatchback and looked inside the driver’s side window.
“Keys are still there,” she said.
“Get it out of the parking space,” Cutter snapped. He felt his senses coming taut again and he crushed down on a rising tide of alarm. “Make sure it’s running smoothly.”
Samantha got the hatchback parked alongside the 4WD. She waved at Cutter through the windshield.
Underdude leaped off the back of the truck, hauling their heavy black bag. He flung it onto the backseat of the little silver car and then clambered back up onto the vehicle.
“Zeds,” Lone Wolf pointed suddenly, but his voice was calm and detached. “Three of them across the road. Maybe a hundred yards away.”
Rampdog heard the call. He got out of the cabin and stared back across the deserted street. He could see the zombies. Two of them were rotting filthy retches, hideously deformed and hissing with demented rage. They broke into a sudden sprint and raced towards where the vehicles were parked. The third ghoul was a big man who shambled unsteadily, as though newly infected. Rampdog made his decision.
“Put them down, Lone Wolf.”
The Scotsman had his sniper rifle already up to his shoulder, tracking the zombies through the telescopic sight. He fired three quick shots, working the bolt of the weapon with smooth practiced precision, and the undead dropped to the ground before the final sound of gunfire had echoed and faded away into the still morning air.
“That will be the dinner bell for the rest of them,” Rampdog turned to Cutter and frowned grimly. “It’s time to go.”
Cutter nodded. He stared past the shape of the big man and glared at Jillian through the open door of the 4WD. The girl had discarded the warm jacket so that she sat with her blouse gaping open and her skirt rucked up high on her thighs. She stared fixedly ahead through the windscreen.
She sensed Cutter’s eyes burning into her but never turned her head. “I’m a survivor, Jack,” she said. Her voice was empty of all emotion. “I know the game and I do what it takes.”
Cutter stared. Said nothing.
Jillian’s eyes swam with tears. “Don’t hate me for wanting to stay alive.”
Cutter turned away. Samantha was waving urgently at him through the windscreen of the hatchback. Rampdog got back into the passenger side of the truck and thrust his big hand through the window. “Be all you can be – and good luck to you both.”
Cutter ran for the hatchback. Other dark twisted shapes were beginning to emerge from around the corner of the diner. Samantha spun the wheel of the car and put her foot flat down on the accelerator, heading north.
Heading towards Eden Gardens – and hope.
Six.
Paradise...
After a mile the road north narrowed to two lanes and the land beyond the thin ribbon of blacktop became rolling green fields of farmland.
Samantha relaxed her grip on the wheel and stole a glance at Cutter. He was watching her.
“You look like you’re deep in thought,” Cutter said.
Samantha paused, and then nodded. “I guess I am,” she said. “But I’m thinking about a lot of things at once.”
Cutter raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”
Samantha shrugged. “I was thinking how little I know about you… and how much I’d love to get out of these clothes right now.”
Cutter looked at her sharply. There was just a
trace of a twinkle in the girl’s eyes – enough to suggest to Cutter than she was perfectly aware of the double meaning.
He glanced away and watched the farmland drift slowly past the window. There was a smudge of dark smoke on the eastern horizon. “I’m an artist,” Cutter said at last. “A commercial artist. I painted book covers and CD covers – those kind of things for publishers.”
It was Samantha’s turn to be surprised. “Have you done work for any authors or bands I might know of?”
Cutter laughed. “Probably not,” he said. He turned back and she was looking at him. He realized suddenly how young she was. Young and innocent. She had perfect smooth skin and big wide eyes: impossibly beautiful and unprepared for the terrifying way the world had turned. But he knew too, that below that naïve exterior was a tough, steely resolve, and he found her beauty and bravery impossible to reconcile.
He shook his head, but for a different reason. “I don’t think the books or music you listen to are the sorts of covers I’d be commissioned to illustrate.”
She made a face, but it was a fun, lighthearted gesture, and then seemed to change the conversation completely.
“Tell me more about Eden Gardens,” she said. She brushed a long golden tendril from her face with the back of her hand. “Tell me what you know.”
Cutter sat back in the seat and closed his eyes. He remembered Hos and the conversation back in the bookstore basement. Had it really been just a couple of days ago? It seemed like an eternity had passed, so that his recollection was vague and halting.
“The man who told me about the place died back in Newbridge,” Cutter explained. “But the night before, he told me he had a place in the country that was prepared for this kind of apocalypse. He told me he had been a survivalist for years –”
“– Like the men from Team Exodus?” Sam interrupted and Cutter nodded. “I imagine so,” he said. “He seemed the type.”
“Type?”
Cutter nodded again. “He had an interest in guns and tactics. That kind of thing,” Cutter explained. “He told me his place was a fortress. He had a full collection of weapons and a stockpile of ammunition, food and water. And he said he had a generator.”
Ground Zero: A Zombie Apocalypse Page 16