Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 9): Frayed

by Chesser, Shawn

  “She’ll be alright, Foley,” said Brook, thankfully letting him off the hook. “She’s a tough ol’ broad.”

  Wiping her eyes, Glenda chuckled. “Carry on,” she told Foley. “What you do is more important than consoling this”—she smiled, a twinkle in her eyes—“ol’ broad.”

  Foley disappeared through the foyer with Heidi following after. A handful of seconds passed and the sound of two doors opening simultaneously echoed back to the security container. The creak of the front entry was one as the three adults filed outside. The second was the sonorous hum of the door to the Kids’ quarters swinging wide, the hinges of which had purposefully gone unoiled. Kind of an early warning system for any adults who might be standing around and jawing about subjects not appropriate for a twelve-year-old’s ears, and probably questionable for even someone two years senior.

  Both doors closed at the same time. Then sounds: Footfalls on plywood. Giggles filtering around the corner. And the clop of boots coming to a halt by the foyer.

  Brook craned around. “Where you going, girls?”

  “Topside,” replied Sasha, her bright red hair peeking from under a yellow stocking cap sporting a golf-ball-sized tuft of white fluff up top.

  Brook suppressed a smile. The teen, from the ears up, reminded her of a Candy Corn—Brook’s least favorite Halloween candy, by a country mile. She caught Raven’s gaze. Held it and said, “You know the rules.”

  Raven nodded. Her black stocking cap was foraged from somewhere. Maybe a stalled-out car on the road, Brook thought. At any rate, the skull and crossbones emblazoned on it was more Taryn’s style than her little girl’s.

  “Be careful. The dead are going to start stirring sooner or later. Watch your six.”

  “l will, Mom.”

  Sasha was looking on, a question hanging on her slightly parted lips.

  “You too, Sash. You’re the oldest. Do you remember what that entails?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m in charge. Therefore the responsibility for whatever happens lies square on my shoulders.”

  “That’s correct. And that’s where the trust part comes in. I am entrusting you with my Bird.”

  Raven smiled at the sound of her nickname.

  “Mrs. Grayson,” Sasha said. “May we take a gun?”

  Brook shook her head. “Shouldn’t need one if you stay inside the wire and keep your runabout short. You have your knives, I see.”

  Glenda was following the exchange with rapt attention. Her head moved as if on a swivel. Left, right and then back again, taking in every word.

  “We’ll keep it short,” said Sasha, setting the ball on her confection-looking-hat bobbing to-and-fro. “Promise.”

  “Go along then, girls.”

  “Max?”

  “No, Raven.” Brook pointed toward her feet.

  Message received. Raven turned to follow Sasha out, the corners of her mouth turned down. Not a full-blown pout, thought Brook. But close.

  “Raven,” called Brook. When the girl looked over her shoulder, Mom arched a brow and made like she was tugging an imaginary item hanging from her neck.

  Raven nodded. Reached her hand into her jacket, grasped the nylon cord and displayed the slender metal tube hanging there.

  “Have fun, ladies,” Brook said as the girls scampered off. She turned back and caught Seth looking at her. “What?”

  “You sure?”

  “Says the eye in the sky. They have blades. Besides … what could happen to them?”

  “They’re kids with cabin fever,” he replied. “A lot.” At that, he turned his eyes to the monitor and saw the girls already across the clearing and threading their way past Daymon’s Winnebago.

  “Well played, Mom,” Glenda said. “Let’s go now, young Brooklyn Grayson. It’s time for your daily treatment.”

  Chapter 60

  Cade awoke just as a slab of wet snow broke free from the steeply canted roof a dozen feet overhead. In his mind’s eye he saw it drawn by gravity down the steep steel pitch, the swishing sound the granular crystals made as they picked up speed reminding him of a barber’s straight razor taking a pass over a leather strap. The noise lasted but a split second then silence ensued and a blocky man-sized shadow hurtling towards the ground flashed in front of the south-facing window.

  Look out below, thought Cade, a half-beat before hearing the resulting wet plops of the moisture-laden snow impacting the driveway.

  There were no curse words rising up from below the window. Which was a good thing, considering everybody was pretty much irritable and on edge anyway. However, the next slab to take the plunge did so nearer the front of the house, creating enough of a racket from beginning to end to put a stop to Duncan’s snoring—momentarily.

  The acrid stench of flashbang residue was first to hit Cade’s nose. Then the pong of death coming from the bed a yard from his head. Though noticeable, it had no effect on him. He had been surrounded by it for what seemed like ten lifetimes now. It was in his pores and hair and clothes. The same had been true in the Sand Box. After spending any length of time over there, one got used to the combination of unwashed bodies, human waste runoff, and the distinct smells of locals cooking with different staples and spices. Coming home that first time had really thrown him for a loop. Though familiar, the sights and sounds and smells he’d taken for granted before were at times disconcerting. The thought of which helped him place the one odor overlying it all—the rancid smell of old man farts. Easily pinnable on Duncan, who continued snoring away somewhere near the front of the house.

  He looked at his watch. Ten of eleven. Shit!

  More snow lost out to the rising temperature outside and crashed to the driveway below, causing Duncan to go silent for a long three-count before the snoring resumed. It was a kind of wet rattle, interspersed with the inane and indecipherable mutterings of someone suffering from PTSD as well as a handful of undiagnosed problems of the head brought about by the day-to-day horror surviving the zombie apocalypse had become.

  After staring at the ceiling and cursing himself for failing to rise at daybreak, Cade looked the length of his body and saw that his foot was still toes above his nose and parked atop his pack which he had wedged in the walnut vanity’s kneehole. He wiggled his toes inside his left boot. Saw the leather give a little on the sides where the foot normally hinged and then a barely perceptible ripple of the metatarsals pressing against the hard leather toecap. Expecting a flare of pain, he felt only a dull throb emanating from deep inside. He imagined the angry purple bruising that he knew was there just underneath his bloused pants leg. He hadn’t let injury stop him in South Dakota, and he wasn’t about to let it stop him from making the most out of however much time was left of the brief gift the previous day’s inclement weather had bestowed upon the living.

  Before enduring the pain he knew extricating himself from his prone position was sure to bring about, he propped his body up on his left elbow. Craning his head back, he cast his gaze the length of the master suite past the perfectly made up bed, Duncan’s legs—boots to knees—which were sticking out past the foot of said bed, and onward to the veranda where silhouetted in the flat light filtering in was a form holding a scoped rifle he immediately pegged as Lev.

  Cade gritted his teeth as a sharp stab of breath-robbing pain took hold where the multitude of tiny bones came together inside his ballooned ankle. Sweat forming on his brow, he rolled over onto his stomach and sucked wind. Who had he been trying to fool earlier? This one was as bad as the Dakota injury. Using the vanity for support, he rose shakily. Wiped his brow and then dug out another half-dozen little brown pills. He swallowed them dry, then grabbed the handrail and made his way down the short run of stairs leading to the landing. Took them down, gripping the handrail, crossed to the other side and scaled their counterparts in a like fashion. Feeling the cold sheen of sweat reforming on his brow, he continued on down the narrow hall leading to the master bath.

  Squinting against the light streaming in th
rough the shuttered east-facing window, he bypassed the inoperable toilet and sidled up to the old white clawfoot tub. He leaned with his knees pressed to the tub’s lip, parted his fly and let loose. The stream was slow at first, but when it got going he saw that his urine was the color of bile—a muddy shade of yellow like one of those expensive upper-shelf mustards. There was a hamster banging around in his head and his lips were crisscrossed with tiny cracks, and through the night, little beads of white froth had dried at the corners. He didn’t need his wife here to tell him he was showing symptoms of dehydration. He’d been so focused on culling the dead that he’d neglected his own body’s needs.

  He finished his business, and once the last of the oily looking yellow liquid had trickled down the drain, he replaced the stopper.

  He retraced his steps, testing the ankle by descending and then ascending the stairs without relying on the handrail. Good to go. He didn’t pass out. Nor did he collapse. Mike Desantos would have barked, Rub some dirt on it, pussy!

  Smiling at the thought of his old friend, Cade corralled his rifle and proceeded towards the veranda, where he saw Lev in virtually the same pose as before. As he passed by Duncan, who was still sound asleep but no longer snoring, he thumped the rifle against the soles of his boots and in his best DI voice hollered, “Private Winters … you maggot … we missed you at morning roll. Wake up, you pond-scum sucking gutter-dweller!”

  Duncan’s eyes fluttered and then his boot heels clicked together. Whether it was an involuntary reaction in response to the authoritative voice, muscle memory still ingrained from snapping to attention at a moment’s notice during basic training, or a direct result from the carbine stock coming into contact with his boots, Cade could care less. Sand was slipping through the hourglass and he wanted to get to Eden before the monsters regained full mobility.

  Without stopping to confirm that his rude move had produced the desired effect, Cade limped ahead to the veranda.

  When he parted the sheer curtains and opened the left side of the French door, he was struck instantly by the temperature swing. Glenda knew her stuff. In only twenty-four hours the weather had turned from darn near arctic to balmy in comparison.

  He craned around the door divider and saw that from where Lev was standing the Iraq war veteran had a clear view of all of downtown Huntsville, the cemetery due west of there, and the corpse-strewn green-space and beach across the thin blue-green finger of Pineville Reservoir coming between the two.

  The milled metal forestock of Lev’s inherited carbine was resting on his makeshift shooter’s pad of folded-up blue jeans arranged on the veranda rail. He was sitting on the purloined walnut vanity stool with the five-thousand-dollar rifle snugged to his shoulder, eye close to the massive scope and one arm wrapped around the stock, holding it rock steady. A two-way radio was clutched in his other hand and he was talking to someone presumably near the boat launch where the carbine’s substantial barrel was trained.

  “Whatcha got?” Cade asked.

  Lev didn’t change his posture nor did he attempt to make eye contact. “I have eyes on Jamie and the Kids. They’ve been at it for about ninety minutes. I figure they’re two or three hundred shy of being finished.”

  “How are they taking it?”

  “Better now that the whistling has stopped. Creepy shit. I watched Wilson lose his cookies first. Then a little later Taryn and Jamie blew chunks all over the snow.”

  Duncan edged up to the railing. “Last night I got a little teaser of what Cade heard yesterday morning.” He went on to describe the Chinese scouts they came across and what he heard coming from their maws.

  “Good thing we let you two sleep through it, then,” Lev stated.

  Cade said, “Hey,” to get Lev’s attention. Lev raised up from the rest and sat straight, one hand holding the rifle in check against gravity. “Yes?” he said in as calm a tone as a man about to face a hurricane head on could muster.

  “It’s cool you didn’t wake me,” Cade said. “My body was trying to tell me something anyway.” He took a bottled water from the side table and spun the cap off. Drank it in one long pull and didn’t stop until the bottle crinkled in on itself. Before opening a much-needed second bottle he went on, “What time did everyone head out?”

  “The Kids and Jamie … around oh-eight-hundred.”

  “Urch and Oliver?” asked Duncan.

  “You mean Daymon and his new buddy, O.G.?”

  “O.G.,” said Cade. “Isn’t that some gang thing? Original Gangster … I think.”

  “Correct—” began Lev.

  “—Or Oliver Gladson,” finished Duncan.

  Cade said nothing.

  Lev said, “They left for Eden at first light in the Land Cruiser.” He paused for a second, a laugh trapped in his chest and threatening to bust out. Cade was looking at him intently, now. Sensing something was being withheld he said, “And?”

  Lips pursed, Lev choked out, “Seemed like they were on a mission.”

  “What’s so dang funny?” drawled Duncan.

  Shaking his head, cheeks blushing red, Lev maintained a forced quiet.

  “Spit … it … out,” Duncan ordered. “Or I’ll tell Jamie what you told me about her prowess in the sack.”

  “That’s fucking blackmail. I didn’t tell you shit.”

  The radio crackled. Jamie said, “You coming, Lev?”

  Cade smiled big at the timing of that one.

  Duncan said, “I know you didn’t. But your little lady doesn’t know what I do or don’t know.” He smiled.

  Deciding the Old Man’s bullshit arm-twisting only warranted a fraction of the information, Lev said, “When those two left they had to step over you.”

  “And?” Cade asked.

  “Oliver made it over with no problems.” Lev’s nostrils flared. He shook his head, a twinkle in his eyes regarding some yet to be divulged detail banging around in his head.

  “We don’t have time for this,” said Cade. “Divulge. Now. What are they up to?”

  Lev fixed his gaze on Cade. “So … Daymon is stepping over you and out of nowhere you flinch and your arms fly up in front of your face and you’re in some Rocky Marciano boxing pose in your sleep. Then … Oliver is chanting softly, ‘tea bag, tea bag, tea bag’ … on and on, like that.”

  “And?” the look on Cade’s face still passive.

  Now Duncan is pursing his lips and harboring a belly laugh of his own.

  “Did he … tea bag? Whatever that is.” Cade looked over at Duncan. “What’s a tea bag? I’m guessing it’s not Darjeeling blend.”

  Both men were holding their sides now. Lev had put the rifle down. Then, as if he were playing a game of charades, he went into great detail what a proper tea bagging entailed.

  With a look of utter disgust parked on his face, Cade asked, “And why didn’t you stop him from following through, Lev?”

  “Didn’t need to. Right when he grew a pair and was about to drop trou, your hands relaxed and went back to your sides … one of them near your Glock. That was when Daymon said ‘Hell no … motherfucker will blow my balls off in his sleep’ and pulled his drawers up quicker than shit.”

  Cade faked a laugh. “Ha ha. One brush of ball sack … hell, one little pubic hair hits my nose and the owner gets a free neutering compliments of my Gerber.”

  “If it’s a woman pube?” said Duncan, tears streaming from the corners of his eyes.

  In a moment of levity, Cade played along, saying, “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

  Being left hanging in limbo on the radio for Jamie became unacceptable after roughly ninety seconds. “Are you coming or not?” she asked again, her tone, delivered through the small speaker, shrill and demanding.

  Chapter 61

  Eden Compound, Utah

  The crown of Raven’s head barely reached the top of the gnarled wooden post. She stood there, one hand gripping the top strand of wire, head craned and looking through the trees towards the feeder r
oad.

  Sasha was already on the other side, having scaled the fence without a word. Now the fourteen-year-old was staring a silent dare Raven’s way.

  “You’re outside the wire.” Raven jiggled the post as if checking its steadfastness. It did not move; however, her resolve wavered a little.

  “Technically, I’m inside the wire,” replied Sasha. She removed her stocking cap, letting her hair erupt to its normal volume. It was warming up, so the hat went in a pocket and she unzipped her jacket.

  “What do you mean?” asked Raven, casting a furtive glance over her shoulder and trying to pick out the all-seeing-eye perched on the post somewhere through the trees to her right. Because if she could see the plastic globe, then the camera inside the globe could also see her. Thankfully, it was blocked entirely from view by the picket of juvenile trees lining the road just inside the middle gate.

  “As far as I’m concerned,” said Sasha. “The fence at the main road is the wire. Then, if we cross the road and climb the fence on the other side of the main road … we’re right back inside the wire. Technically.”

  Raven put her hands on her hips. Define technically, she thought. Then right after that she heard in her head Sasha saying to Brook: The responsibility for whatever happens lies square on my shoulders. That was enough to erode her resolve, and as if someone outside of herself was manipulating a string attached to her head, it bobbed up and down once, then before she could stop herself, she was slipping between the stretched wires to Sasha’s side.

  “That’s my girl,” said Sasha, a devilish gleam in her eye.