Chief said nothing. Instead he peered at the desert outside the window, dabbing at his forehead.
Just before the junction with 39, Brook took her eyes from the road on the gentle right-hand sweeper and set the radio next to the smaller Motorola in the console. She slowed some more and looked at Chief and didn’t like what she saw. Applying more brake, she asked him to get on the radio and warn the Kids not to look at Jenkins’s corpse. When she returned her eyes to the road ahead, with the F-650 now rolling at a slow crawl, she saw another vehicle pulled up close to Jenkins’s high-centered Tahoe and completely blocking the northbound lane, its front end facing directly at her.
After a couple of seconds she decided that the early model SUV, boxy and painted in a woodland camouflage pattern of browns and greens with black splotches simulating shadow, was an old Army surplus Bronco or Blazer.
The Tahoe’s driver side door was open and a wiry-looking man, or teenager—Brook couldn’t tell from this distance—had his arms wrapped around Jenkins’s lifeless body and was manhandling it from behind the steering wheel. At almost the same instant that she saw the person, the person heard the Ford’s engine note and looked up, surprise etched on his face. In the next heartbeat the person let go of Jenkins’s corpse and Brook saw the blood-soaked upper torso fall the three feet to the road and what was left of the dead man’s mangled head strike the blacktop and bounce a couple of times before going still.
With a pair of binoculars already raised to his eyes, Chief said, “There’s someone else ... a woman. She’s crouched behind the camouflaged rig’s passenger-side quarter-panel.”
The Ford finally crunched to a halt on the shoulder a third of a football field from the clogged intersection, with its rounded front end partially blocking the right lane at about a sixty-degree angle. A tick later the radio came alive with Wilson chattering excitedly and telling them everything about the situation that they already knew.
Hearing the squelch and pop of gravel as the Raptor pulled in behind the F-650, Chief lowered the binoculars for a tick, snatched up the two-way, and began relaying a play-by-play to the Kids. He said, “I see two bodies. Both of them are armed—” He squinted hard into the field glasses and added, “—rifles and side arms only ... as far as I can tell.” There was a pause as he muted the radio and informed Brook that the two would-be scavengers were about Taryn and Wilson’s age.
To that Brook shrugged. Age was only a number in the apocalypse.
Still glassing the scene, Chief said, “Now they’re taking cover behind their rig. The male is behind the driver’s side door. The female is near the rear bumper ... passenger side, crouched down. Be advised ...” He looked at Brook as he spoke the last five words, “... she’s wearing a ballistic vest.”
“Only the two of them?” whispered Brook.
Chief put the field glasses back to use. He made a ten-second sweep of the vehicle-clogged 39/16 juncture and beyond, paying closer attention to the grassy shoulders and interiors of all three vehicles. The bus was on its side, and running horizontal on its grease-stained underbelly was a thick driveshaft and a mess of exhaust pipes. Splitting them up vertically were the two tree-trunk-sized axles still shod with six oversized commercial grade tires, two up front and four bolted two to a side—dually style—at the rear. Save for the open doors, the Tahoe seemed undisturbed atop the mass of bodies that were now stilled, killed by the scavengers, presumably. Finally, having discerned as much as he could from afar, Chief declared that there was no one else up ahead.
“We’re going by them no matter what. Dead or alive ... it’s their call,” said Brook as she unbelted and kicked open her door.
“What should we do?” asked Wilson over the radio.
Ignoring the radio, Brook turned from where she was crouched near the F-650’s left front tire and waved Wilson and Taryn forward.
She conferred with the pair for a second then sent them back to the Raptor, where Taryn slid back behind the wheel and Wilson climbed up into the bed and sat, back against the cab, waiting for his cue.
Come on kids ... throw up a white flag, thought Brook. You’re way outgunned.
A minute passed and Brook nodded to Chief, who with as much bass as he could muster and doing his best to project his voice down the road, ordered the pair to throw their weapons down and put their hands into the air.
But the only thing being thrown from behind the rattle-can-painted 4x4 were a couple of middle fingers. Then the male declared that they owned Woodruff and everything south. The girl spoke up and in a shrill voice ordered Chief and the others to turn around and leave.
“Can’t do it,” shouted Chief. “Make way. We’re going to pass.”
The scavengers’ body language changed as they used some colorful words to defame Chief and the proverbial horse he rode in on.
Brook inched her head around the angular metal bumper and was immediately pelted with chips of matte black paint and felt her own blood, hot and sticky, seeping from her hairline and wetting her forehead.
The sound of gunfire his cue, Wilson shouldered his carbine, took a deep breath that did little to calm his nerves, and rose to standing. He planted his elbows on the sun-warmed sheet metal and laid his rifle over the Raptor’s moon roof. Pressing his lower body firmly against the back of the cab, he flicked the selector to Single and peered through the 3x magnifier, searching for the woman.
A tick after being sprayed in the face with tiny fragments of God knows what, Brook had the shooter’s head bracketed in her sights and a volley of answering gunfire erupted from behind and above. Finger tensing on the trigger, Brook heard Cade’s voice in her head. Never use a vehicle’s door for cover if there’s something else nearby. Which she’d already done without thinking. However, the kid shooting at her had not. And seeing as how he wasn’t a Z, she had no reason to go for a headshot. Much more difficult. Then Cade’s voice again, reminding her to shoot for center mass.
So she adjusted her aim lower by a couple of degrees, took a calming breath, and drew back the rest of the trigger pressure. And then after the first bullet left the muzzle, repeated the latter part of the process continuously for three seconds until there were six puckered dents grouped closely together chest-high in the 4x4’s camouflaged sheet metal.
A surprised look on the kid’s face was the first indication that the 5.56 hardball ammo had continued on through the door’s internals and penetrated the inner trim and found flesh. And happening near simultaneously, the second indicator, caused by a ripple effect from the projectile’s kinetic energy and trailing shockwave, was a violent eruption of pebbled glass and pulped cardboard and flecks of sun-hardened vinyl.
Shots three through six must have struck the body as it melted vertically into the ground, because the initial split-second scream coming from the kid’s mouth was silenced mid-collapse.
From his perch in the Raptor’s bed Wilson continued taking single potshots at the small form crouched down behind the camo 4x4. He heard Chief’s instruction: Keep her head down so I can flank her.
Already one step ahead of Wilson, at the onset of gunfire Chief had angled to his right and gone into a low crawl in the nearby ditch. By the time Brook’s volley went silent he was a dozen feet beyond the F-650’s right front tire, rifle tucked in tight and peering through the roadside grass.
Magnified by the scope atop his carbine Chief could barely make out the woman’s knees where they met the asphalt near the camo rig’s jacked-up rear end. He hovered the crosshairs on a square foot of air above and behind the diamond plate bumper near where the whip antenna was bolted to the quarter panel. He waited a few seconds and, when Wilson’s firing stopped altogether, drew a few pounds of pressure off the trigger. A tick later, as expected, human nature overcame fear and the woman, lips pursed into a thin white line, poked her head out from behind the vehicle.
With his stomach in knots, whether from the deed he was about to commit, or something else entirely, Chief took the shot. The 5.56 left the m
uzzle traveling 3,100 feet per second and in less than a fifth of that the woman’s head snapped back and a halo of pink blossomed where it had been. In the next instant she was flat on her back, one knee pointing skyward, left arm twitching.
The hollow clang of his boots on the truck’s metal bed preceded Wilson bellowing, “They’re both hit,” as he jumped down to the road.
Then in the next beat, with the report of Chief’s shot still rolling across the open range, Brook called out for help. Saying she couldn’t see.
Chapter 61
The that that Cade had alluded to was a barricade made from hardwood desks, rolling ergonomic chairs, computers, printers, monitors, cheap fiberboard drawers and the skeletal dressers they belonged in.
There were comforters and shower curtains and beach towels draped over the jumble making seeing anything on the other side difficult. All in all it looked as if the well-thought-out barrier had been constructed over time. And the fact that (so far) all of the Zs the team had encountered had been on this side of Mount OfficeMax, whoever built the thing deserved to live. Or at the very least—if they hadn’t benefitted from the engineering masterpiece—a posthumous medal was in order.
Accentuated by the gun smoke haze, pinpricks of light shone through the barrier here and there. The air smelled of death and gunpowder and the sour pong of fear-laced sweat.
“Let’s yank the thing down,” Griffin said, bouncing subtly from foot to foot.
“Everything is a nail to you guys,” Lopez said. He pulled aside a shower curtain with a floral pattern and black mold growing on the lower six inches. Peered beyond the wheeled base of a high-backed fabric chair. After a second’s scrutiny he let the vinyl curtain fall back into place, turned and said, “Let’s hammer the dead through this thing first. Then you can demo it. What say you, Griff?”
With a wide grin parting his face, Griffin said, “Copy that.”
Cade looked behind them only to see the tabby lounging on the paisley carpet and grooming itself. “I have a hunch,” he said. “I’m going to check the fire escape. Give me a minute before you start tearing that thing down.”
Sipping from his hydration pack, Cross said, “Please share.”
Cade held up one finger and said, “One minute.” He hustled down the hall past the wildly contorted leaking bodies the way they had come and stopped at the far end near where they’d exited the stairway from the garage. Pressed his ear to the fire escape door and heard only the soft murmur of the dead he knew were out there somewhere. Conditioned to expect the attention-getting wail of an alarm, he threw the deadbolt and slowly cracked the steel door open a few inches. When no alarm blared he pushed ahead, leaned out, and looked down.
The cursory glance told him all he needed to know. Unlike the building’s internal stairs, the escape stairs didn’t have the benefit of a long run. Therefore the entire run was ridiculously steep and switched back multiple times. About sixty degrees steep, he guessed. Nothing easy to navigate for a group of guys wearing body armor and carrying weapons and gear all over their bodies. And a monumental task to negotiate while lugging a hundred pounds of dead weight in a makeshift litter no matter the garb.
On the street below, through the gently swaying palm fronds, he could see twenty or thirty flesh-eaters. Working the scenario through his head he decided that even if they took Nadia down in a litter their combat boots beating the steel rungs would be enough to get them noticed and draw a bigger crowd before they reached the building’s middle floors. And if they somehow successfully fought their way through the crowd at the bottom there was still the matter of getting the girl to the extraction point with hungry Zs in hot pursuit. It was going to have to be the front entry or the garage, he thought to himself.
So he closed and locked the door and returned to the barricade. When he arrived he quickly voiced the thought he had just had to the assembled team and let it be known that he was leaning towards going out the way they had come in—but with a little added wrinkle.
Lopez nodded and the team began tearing down the sheets and towels; in no time walkers had emerged out of, Cade guessed, apartment doors left open beyond the barricade and were hissing and moaning as they approached.
Cade tore down a Hello Kitty bedspread and saw, on the right, the main source of natural light spilling in, the two empty glass elevator bays he’d noticed from the air. And through the staggered panes of glass he noticed the building’s west side angling away slightly to the right. Closer in he saw a bank of mirrored windows he pegged as belonging to Apartment 610—Nadia’s place. They were all closed, and due to the angle of deflection he couldn’t make out any movement behind them.
Sticking his M4 through the newly created opening, Lopez said, “Going hot. Engaging.”
There was the sound of brass tinkling off the door and wall to Cade’s right and the soft report of the suppressed gunfire echoing off the drop-down ceiling tiles and walls all around the team.
One by one the creatures dropped like marionettes, their strings snipped.
A few long seconds ticked by with Lopez sighting down his weapon and waiting. During those seconds, as eddies of gun smoke danced through the light spill from the elevator windows, the only sound in the hallway was of the men breathing and the rustle of Griffin’s uniform as he paced along the barrier.
Changing out the partial magazine, Lopez looked to the SEALs and said, “Hammer time.”
On the lookout down the hall for additional flesh-eaters, Cade and Lopez stood as far left as possible, while, with a good deal of huffing and puffing and smashing of furniture, Griffin and Cross created a sizable opening in the barrier near the elevator doors on their right.
Two minutes after Lopez decimated the demonios the team padded through the breach and, while Griff and Cross moved the bloodied corpses from their path, Cade and Lopez conducted a quick sweep of the rest of the east wing hallway, closing any doors that were open.
Once the team reconvened in front of 610, Lopez banged a fist on the door and then pressed his ear to the cool metal skin below the brass numbers and listened hard. A few seconds went by and then he stood up straight, shaking his head and mouthing, “Nothing.”
Cade moved forward, took a knee and, using the pick gun, defeated the lock in a matter of seconds.
Just like in the stairwell the team stacked up hand on shoulder: Cade, Lopez, Cross, and Griffin.
The brushed nickel knob made a clicking noise when Cade turned it. He paused and listened again. Still nothing moved inside. So, feeling Lopez’s hand resting on his right shoulder, he pushed the door in and stalked over the threshold, taking in everything through the holographic sight mounted atop the M4. Details registered in his mind like scenes cycling through a View Master. A kitchenette full of miniature appliances on the right: Fridge, stove, and dishwasher. A table awash in hardened candle wax and two chairs up against the window. Next to it a water cooler and an upturned plastic bottle attached with not so much as a drop of condensation inside it. On the floor, on its side, was another five-gallon empty, and strewn about were dozens of single serving water bottles, also empty.
Flat light splashed the walls gold as Cade waded through the mess on the floor and curled left. Instantly he saw the living room was barren, its contents no doubt added to the zombie barrier in the hall. He called out, “Clear,” and proceeded towards an open door at the far left corner of the room.
Three paces across the carpeted floor and he was at the door, crouching and staring into the gloom. “Nadia,” he called.
Nothing.
As his eyes adjusted, he saw there was a twin-size mattress on the floor. On the mattress was a blanket and under the blanket was a small inert form.
“Nadia.”
Still nothing.
Cade looked at the men assembled at his six and saw an eagerness to help in Griffin’s eyes. Cross was covering the door and staring at the tabby cat staring at him. Lopez was hailing the waiting Ghost Hawk, obviously anxious to offer up a situa
tion report.
A second went by and Lopez said, “Wait one,” and looked a question at Cade.
“I’ve got this,” Cade said. He flicked his light on and entered the tiny room. The air was still and smelled of feces and urine. Straight ahead was a second door likely leading to a bathroom and inoperable toilet, which he gathered to be the source of the stench. Since the form didn’t react to his presence he spent a half-beat checking the next room. He cut the corner with the business end of his M4 and craned around the door frame looking right. He saw the source of the stench: dark brown water in the toilet bowl. The porcelain tank lid was on the floor and the tank was empty, the flapper in the up position. Beyond it was a tiny wall-mounted sink, also dry.
There were towels strewn about the floor and then he saw the standup shower at the back of the room, minus its curtain and also empty, save for what looked like half a dozen different shampoo bottles. Once again he announced, “Clear,” then ducked back into the bedroom and crept to the inert form on the low bed and prodded it gently with the carbine’s suppressor. Instantly there was a faint guttural moan. He called, “Nadia?” then bent over the waif-like form and peeled the thin sheet away.
What he saw stirred up a plethora of stuffed emotion. There on the bed was a woman no bigger than Brook, clad in tank top and shorts and staring up at the ceiling. In profile the woman’s button nose was unmistakably Nash. And though it was matted and greasy, the mane of blonde hair resembled Nadia’s from the photo. However, the eyes staring up at him did not. They were dull and fixed on the ceiling and for a beat he thought she was infected. Until she said, “Mom.” It was barely above a whisper but unmistakable.
“It’s Nadia. She’s still alive,” Cade blurted.
Suddenly Lopez was chattering into the comms, filling Ari in and setting up their next course of action.
Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 33