ROTD (Book 3): Rage of the Dead

by Dyson, Jeremy

  “He ain’t coming, Hoff,” I tell him. “We need to go.”

  Hoff silently shifts the shuttle into drive and pulls out on to the highway again. We keep driving north through the mountains. No one is really very certain where we are going now that we don’t have Fletcher to help us navigate the roads to Cheyenne Mountain.

  “We should pull off at a gas station,” I tell Hoff. “We could use a roadmap.”

  “Probably come in handy,” Hoff agrees.

  “You think we can make it there by nightfall?” I ask him.

  Hoff shrugs.

  “Maybe,” he finally says. “Maybe not.”

  I can take a hint.

  He doesn’t really feel like talking right now. I can hardly blame the guy. I have been in the same place myself too many times since this all started.

  The somber mood makes for a quiet drive through the mountains. It doesn’t seem like anyone feels like talking now except for Claire and the doctor. They discuss something quietly in the back row. I decide to make my way to an empty seat near them. Claire turns to glance at me for a moment as I sit down before she returns her focus to the doctor.

  I had not really paid much attention to him since he arrived, but now as I take in the old man in his boxers, dress socks, and lab coat, I have to admit, I’m a little curious to know what is going on with the guy.

  “It was terrible,” he says. “Inhumane conditions.”

  “How long were you held there?” Claire asks him.

  “I can not say for sure,” the doctor says. “Many months.”

  “What is he talking about?” I ask Claire.

  Claire turns to look at me. She seems annoyed at the interruption.

  “The doctor was just telling me what happened to him,” she says. “He’s been held against his will in a secret Russian laboratory for several years.”

  “Why?” I wonder.

  “They forced him to work on developing new weapons to use against us,” she says.

  I look up again at the doctor, and he smiles at me.

  “I don’t think we’ve met young man,” he says. “I’m Dr. Charles Schoenheim.”

  “Chase,” I tell him.

  “Oh,” the man smiles. He seems thrilled to meet me. Too thrilled. “I had a dog named Chase when I was a boy. A little beagle.”

  “That’s great,” I nod, before I turn back to Claire. “What the fuck is wrong with him?”

  “He’s been through a lot,” she defends him. “It’s a miracle he’s even alive. He is one of the most brilliant researchers in his field.”

  I look at the old man and have to wonder how the hell he is going to be of any use to anyone. He certainly doesn’t look like he is as brilliant as I was led to believe. Not anymore at least.

  “Why doesn’t he put on some pants then?”

  “Chase,” Claire says. “The doctor needs his medication.”

  “Medication?” I say.

  “Doneprezil,” she says. “For dementia.”

  “What if we can’t find him any?” I ask her.

  “We have to,” she says. “If he is going to help us.”

  This is just another monkey wrench thrown in to fuck up the gears even further.

  Not only do we need to get the doctor someplace safe and get the equipment he needs to do his research, but now we need to get our hands on a supply of a very specific medication so that he has enough mental capacity to do anything at all. Even if we get to Cheyenne Mountain, all of this might have been for nothing. Calling this a long shot would seem too optimistic at this point.

  My eyes focus on the doctor. The senile man smiles at the sights alongside the road like this is some sort of amusing theme park ride. I can’t help but resent the imbecile a bit, even if none of this is really his fault. It still bothers me to see anyone so oblivious to all the horrible things happening all around us. He better be able to make all of this matter somehow.

  “What were they forcing him to work on anyway?” I ask Claire. “The Russians.”

  Claire studies my face for a long moment. She doesn’t seem like she wants to answer the question.

  “I’m not sure,” Claire says. “But, it might have been something related to all of this.”

  The news sends a cold chill up my spine. I could be sitting with the man that took an active role in bringing about the death of my entire platoon. Claire raises her eyebrows and inhales sharply. She panics when she sees the look of rage on my face.

  “Chase—,” she holds a hand up, but I shove it out of my face.

  “You mean to tell me that this fucking guy might have been the one that started all this shit?”

  I stand up from my seat, even though I’m not sure what I’m doing. My instincts tell me to just shoot the asshole and avenge my brothers. Claire gets out of her seat as well and puts her body between the doctor and me.

  I can feel everyone in the vehicle watching me. I glance over my shoulder and see Hoff looking up at me in the mirror above the windshield. I don’t think he would do anything to stop me, but then again, I don’t know him all that well yet.

  “Chase,” Claire says. “I’m not even sure.”

  “Move, Claire,” I warn her.

  The doctor continues to stare out the window, completely oblivious to everything that’s happening.

  “Stop!” Claire yells. “He didn’t have a choice. He was just trying to survive. I know him. He isn’t some monster. He didn’t want any of this to happen.”

  “Damn it, Claire,” I growl at her. “Get out of the fucking way.”

  She shakes her head as she lowers her arms.

  “He is a good man,” she says. “We need him. Without him, we’re all dead. If you want to shoot him, you might as well shoot me right now, too.”

  “I’ll do it,” I warn Claire.

  “Then it will be the last thing you ever do,” Scout says. I look over my shoulder and find her behind me with her Glock pointed at my head.

  Thirty-five

  I lower the Honey Badger to diffuse the situation, and I look back and see Scout lowering her weapon as well. If Claire and Scout hadn’t tried to stop me, I don’t know that I would have actually shot him. I just know I wanted to. I was willing to find out if I’d go through with it.

  “You all done fucking around back there?” Hoff asks as he steers the wheel. “There’s a gas station up ahead.”

  I move back up to the front of the shuttle bus and crouch down to see through the windshield. Up ahead, I spot the gas station where the road intersects with a highway. Everything looks quiet as we approach the area. Several vehicles rest beneath a thick layer of grime and dust. A lone corpse wanders in between the fuel pumps. It may appear deserted, but trouble lurks everywhere now.

  As intense as the situation in the shuttle might have been a few minutes ago, we shift gears and grab our weapons in anticipation of whatever the stop at the station might bring. I can feel Scout watching me, though. It won’t surprise me if she keeps a close eye on me for awhile since we were just pointing guns at each other. She might be the one person here I know would not hesitate if she thought I needed to be dealt with.

  Hoff brings the truck to a stop along the front of the store and I step out the door and raise my rifle to quickly take out the corpse of the gas station attendant wandering by the pumps. I scan the inside of the store through the shattered windows and see the empty shelves and beverage cases.

  We might not find anything of use here at all. The only thing I really want is a map to make sure we don’t get ourselves lost on the endless mountain roads of Colorado, but it looks like even that might be asking for a little too much.

  “I’m going to check it out,” I say to Hoff. I hold up a hand to Blake in the other vehicle to tell him to stay in the car. “Keep it running. I’ll just be a minute.”

  “Famous last words,” Hoff warns me.

  I’ve already had to deal with Fletcher getting himself killed. I don’t need anyone else getting out and mak
ing a stupid mistake as well. At the moment, the only one I have any confidence in is Hoff. The rest of them are all just a liability.

  I step through the shattered door and into the dim light of the storefront. The glass cracks beneath my boots and causes me to pause and check the shop again. It sounds quiet at first, but then I hear sounds coming from the hallway at the back of the store.

  Of course, there had to be at least one.

  I walk down the aisle slow and steady to try and minimize the noise I make, but with all the debris on the floor I’m unable to avoid making a racket. The thing starts moaning and banging on something. I reach the front counter and turn to look around the hall to the right. One of the bathroom doors rattles on the hinges, but the corpse seems to be stuck inside. Then I notice the graffiti on the walls.

  The Reapers.

  I lower the rifle and take a quick look around the store, but there isn’t much left inside here to take. There is a sour smell emanating from the thawed out ice cream freezer and the beverage case full of pungent milk cartons, so I steer clear of that. The only things I walk out with are a dented can of soda, a roll of breath mints and a travel size tube of toothpaste. No map.

  “Just another disappointing waste of time,” I say as I climb back in the truck.

  Only it wasn’t.

  Now I know for certain that what I saw was not just some random graffiti in Los Alamos. There is another group out here calling themselves The Reapers, or at least they were out here not too long ago. And, they are taking everything they can get.

  “It’s getting pretty late,” Hoff says. “Sun will be going down soon.”

  “Think we should stay here for the night?” I ask him.

  “Doesn’t seem like a bad spot,” he says.

  I take a look around the area again and check how low the sun is getting in the sky as I consider it.

  “We should probably try to get some more miles behind us,” I suggest. “We still have a long ways to go. Besides, it fucking stinks in there.”

  Any hope we had of making it to Cheyenne Mountain before nightfall is gone. We could go for it, but driving through any town would be too risky in the dark. And we can forget about going anywhere near a place the size of Pueblo or Colorado Springs. So, we will have to find somewhere else to stay for the night.

  We pull back on to the highway and continue heading north as the sun descends below the mountains to the west. More snow-capped peaks appear on either side of the road as we ascend further into the Sangre de Cristo range.

  Hoff brings the vehicle to a halt at the gates of a large ranch that is miles and miles from anywhere. In the dim light, I see an impressive mansion set back a few hundred yards from the road.

  “Now we’re talking,” Steven says.

  “Think anyone is home?” Hoff asks me.

  “Only one way to find out,” I tell him.

  The chances of running in to any survivors is pretty low these days. But out here, in a place like this, I’d say the odds are slightly higher. It’s just a guess, but I’d be willing to bet that whomever bought this place might have had the apocalypse in mind.

  “I’ll get the gates,” I tell Hoff.

  He opens the door and I climb down the steps and walk up the dirt driveway to the security gates. Tall wooden posts on each end of the fence hold up a wrought-iron sign that says Twilight Ranch. I open the simple cattle gates that block the road and climb back into the shuttle as Hoff steers up the driveway.

  He follows the long gravel road around an enormous barn and up to the darkened house. The cedar exterior gives the home a modest log cabin kind of feel, but the sheer size of the structure and solar-paneled roof make it pretty obvious that the owner had a lot of money.

  We park the vehicles out in front of the house and look around. Across a meadow, I can see a barn and another large log home. Must be the guest house.

  I try not to get my hopes up as we walk up the steps of the creaky porch. The place could be trashed inside. I twist the handle and am startled when lights come on in the entryway. I nearly start firing before I scan the room and realize it is empty. In the corner, I notice a motion sensor on the wall.

  My jaw drops as I look around.

  The place is immaculate. I hesitate in the doorway as I take in the spiral staircase, the motorcycle parked in the den, and the massive stone fireplace.

  “Chase,” Hoff whispers. “Chase.”

  Someone pushes through the doorway behind me when I don’t respond. I just can’t believe my eyes at the moment. Everyone moves inside quietly and stares at the amazing home in awe. Even before the world went to shit, I never stayed in any place half as nice as this.

  “Well, at least something finally went right for us,” Blake says.

  “This place is incredible,” Danielle says.

  I walk into the impressive kitchen and the lights turn on in there. I turn to look into a massive living room and then I spot the owners. The wife and the husband exhibit matching self-inflicted gunshot wounds to the head.

  I cover my nose and turn my eyes away from the bodies. They’ve been dead at least a few days by the smell. The rest of the group follows me down the hall, but I turn around and stop them.

  “Might want to stay out of there,” I warn them although I don’t need to. As soon as the smell hits them, they turn around and head back toward the foyer.

  We clear the rest of the house. It takes us quite a while. The place has seven bedrooms. We walk downstairs and discover a bar, a game room, a sauna and hot tub. Hoff calls me over when he opens the door to what I thought was a hall closet. A set of stairs leads down to a solid steel door. I follow him down the stairs and through the doorway into a sizable bunker. There is a large pantry with a wide assortment of dry goods. A nice collection of rifles, shotguns, sidearms and a shit-ton of ammo.

  “Oh man,” I say to Hoff. “I don’t want to leave this place.”

  He locates a few big bags of sunflower seeds on one of the shelves in the bunker pantry and grabs all of them.

  “Kind of a shame we are just here for the night,” he agrees.

  “Let’s make the most of it then,” I say.

  “You bet your ass,” he says as he heads for the stairs. “First, come give me a hand. I want to move those bodies outside before the kid sees them.”

  I follow him back out of the bunker, and we make our way to the living room. The patio doors open to a large deck, and together, we carry the previous owners outside and lay them on the ground.

  “Doesn’t make sense,” Hoff says.

  “What?” I ask him.

  “Why’d they go through all this trouble just to check out when the shit hits the fan?” Hoff wonders.

  It does seem strange, but doesn’t completely surprise me.

  “Just because someone was a prepper doesn’t mean they’re mentally prepared for this kind of shit,” I say. “That’s a whole different ball game.”

  I head back inside, but Hoff lingers on the patio for a moment.

  “Hey,” Hoff calls me.

  He pauses in the doorway and looks back at me.

  “What?” I say.

  “We just going to leave them out here?” he says. “Something will probably come eat them.”

  “That’s not really our problem,” I say. “Is it?”

  “I guess,” Hoff says. “Just kind of feels like we owe them a little more than this.”

  “They’re dead,” I say. “We don’t owe them a thing.”

  Inside the house, country music blares on a stereo. I turn back and see Hoff still staring at the bodies.

  “You want to spend your only night in this place digging graves, go right ahead,” I tell him.

  “I guess you’re right,” he says. “That hot tub is calling me anyway.”

  We head back inside and, in spite of everything that we’ve been through, everyone is already taking advantage of everything the ranch has to offer.

  Stevie plays in the game room, blasting awa
y at invaders from outer space. Steven flips on the television. There are no broadcasts, but he discovers a selection of movies to watch. Scout, Danielle and Blake split a bottle of wine that Natalie brought up from the cellar. Stitch runs around marking the house plants until he locates the master bedroom and passes out in the middle of the king-sized bed.

  The doctor finally locates a suitable pair of pants in one of the closets upstairs. He gets cleaned up and showers, too. He actually seems almost normal again, at least until you try talking to him.

  Claire makes the best discovery.

  There are actually fresh eggs, produce and meat in the refrigerators.

  “Steaks?” I ask, when she shows me the fridge.

  “Ribeye or Porterhouse?” she asks.

  “Both,” I grin.

  Even though I was pointing my rifle at her a few hours ago, all seems forgotten now. That’s just the nature of the world we live in now. Claire smiles at me as she takes out pots and pans and turns on the electric stove. I can tell this is something she enjoys doing.

  “How come you never made dinner at the house?” I ask her.

  “Anyone can heat up a can of beans,” she explains. “But cooking real food is different. There is a science to it.”

  The aromas fill the house and the rest of us are salivating within minutes. We spend hours eating everything we can fit into our stomachs. Without question, this is the best night that any of us have had in a long time. At least until Blake decides to open his mouth again.

  “Too bad Fletcher couldn’t be here for this,” he says.

  The laughter dies. Everyone stops smiling.

  Blake stares at his glass of wine, lost in thought.

  “We’d have never got him to leave,” Hoff says.

  “You’re probably right,” Blake agrees.

  “To Fletcher,” Danielle says and raises her wine glass.

  The rest of them follow her lead. I even raise my beer slightly and take a sip before I turn and leave the dining room when the conversation turns sentimental.

  I head back down the hall and go into the den to check out the motorcycle. It’s a pretty sweet Harley with an American flag painted over the gas tank and the fenders. Then I remember the map and I start to dig through the bookshelves and the drawers of the desk. I don’t locate one in there, so I walk around the house and find the door to the garage.