Dead America: The First Week Box Set Books 1-7 (Dead America Box Sets Book 2)

by Derek Slaton

  “You son of a bitch,” Rogers wheezed, and spat at his feet.

  Rodriguez grabbed the detective by the throat, shoving him up against the wall. “Head east on the I-10 to Fabens,” he whispered rapidly, lips ghosting Rogers’ ear. “They are coming from the west. I will send people when I can.”

  He shoved him back down onto the floor and aimed his gun at the stunned man. Rodriguez gave him a wink and a nod before he fired, the bullet tearing through Rogers’ left ear. The blast sent him careening to the ground, wound to the floor, a pool of blood growing beneath his pale face. He drew in a deep ragged breath and held it.

  “Whoo!” Angel cried, leaping to his feet as Stevenson’s body flopped forward. “The city is ours!” He pointed to Rodriguez with a wild grin on his face. “You, you have done a fantastic job. My father will hear of this and you will be rewarded!”

  The older man nodded. “I appreciate that, but our job is not finished yet.”

  “Oh, our men can do mop up duty,” Angel replied, waving his hands dismissively. “Juan Pablo, you have some beers so we can celebrate?”

  “What kind of host would I be if I didn’t?” Juan replied. “Cooler is behind the desk.”

  “Angel,” Rodriguez piped up, “your father will be arriving in a matter of hours. Do you want him to find us at city hall with fortifications being constructed? Or do you want him to find you and Juan Pablo drunk off of your asses at the warehouse with the goods we need for the fortifications?”

  Angel defiantly stalked behind the desk and grabbed two cold bottles, handing one to his well-dressed partner. “Not gonna tattle, are you?” he teased as the two cracked them open, heading for the exit.

  “Get moving and you’ll be fine,” Rodriguez replied coldly, and followed everyone out.

  Rogers remained motionless on the floor. He told himself it was out of fear of being discovered. But he knew deep down it was shock and pain.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A half an hour later, Rogers couldn’t stay still any longer, his joints screaming at him to move. He figured his enemies had plenty of time to vacate the premises by that point, and rolled over with a groan. He staggered to his feet, applying pressure to the sticky wound on the side of his head. He wrinkled his nose as he pulled his hand away, finding it covered in crimson.

  His mouth went dry at the crumpled heap in the center of the room that used to be his best friend. He fell to his knees at Stevenson’s side and tears pricked the corners of his eyes. At least Angel had angled the knife so that he hadn’t had to see his friend come back as one of those monsters.

  “I’m sorry, Stevenson,” he said, clenching his fists as his sorrow churned into anger in his chest. “You have my word that bastard will pay.” He patted his partner on the chest in a silent goodbye, and looked around the room. “But first things first, friend. I’ve gotta get out of here in one piece.”

  He spotted a coat rack by the door and headed over, digging through the pockets of a trench coat. He found a black scarf and gingerly wrapped it around his head, securing it tightly in hopes that it would stop the bleeding from what felt like a thumping geyser in the side of his skull.

  He walked over to the desk and rummaged through the drawers, hoping to find a weapon. Instead of a gun, he managed to find a silver letter opener. He pressed his finger on the slightly rounded tip, groaning at how blunt it was.

  “Great,” Rogers muttered, “looks like it’s an eye shot or nothing with this thing.”

  He walked towards the door, pausing one last time at his fallen friend before shaking his head in sadness. Vengeance boiled in his gut and he pressed his lips into a thin line before leaving the room.

  The warehouse was almost completely empty. Several of the trucking bays were missing the trucks that had been there before, and many boxes had been moved from the main floor. Rogers moved as silently as he could, not wanting to attract any attention from enemies, be them living or dead.

  As he crept towards the middle portion of the warehouse, he heard a few voices speaking in Spanish. He ducked behind some boxes, reading his makeshift weapon as they approached. They grew louder and he fell into a crouch, ready to spring.

  As the two men came into view, he pounced, tackling one from the side and smashing him into the other, sending them all to the concrete. He struck quickly on the first man, taking advantage of their surprise to grab his throat and thrust the letter opener directly into his eye. When the hilt met skull, Rogers leapt onto the second man, who was struggling to unholster his handgun.

  The detective growled with animalistic fury as he clamped his hands around his victim’s throat, eyes wild as he stared down at the reddening face of the man below him. He continued to squeeze with all his might long after his opponent stopped moving, regulating his breath and his heartbeat.

  When he pried his hands free, he relieved the bodies of their weapons and ammunition and gave them a pat down, relieved to find a set of keys. He pocketed them and cocked one of the guns, continuing his journey through the warehouse.

  “Let’s just hope you parked nearby,” he murmured to himself as he approached an open bay door. He shimmied forward and cautiously peeked out, seeing no movement save for the little bit of smoke rising from the car he’d blown up.

  He hopped down to the asphalt and skirted the building, peering around the corner. There was a Jeep standing by itself, with two guards standing beside it, having a cigarette and shooting the shit in Spanish. Their backs were to Rogers, and he raised his gun before silently stepping around the corner. He glided forward with catlike grace until he was within killing range.

  With two quick pops, both men dropped to the ground, squirming in pain. They rolled over, mouths agape in shock and fear, and one of them attempted to raise his rifle. Rogers put a bullet between his eyes and then stalked up to the other one, who began to whine in Spanish, something that sounded very much like begging.

  The cold detective stared down at him with detached eyes. The pleas fell on deaf ears. Any empathy he had had at the beginning of the day had been extinguished along with his best friend’s life.

  “Adios,” Rogers said, and fired.

  He looted the corpses for for more guns and ammo before hopping into the vehicle. He fumbled with the keys, selecting the one with the right symbol on it to slide into the ignition. He fired it up and put it into gear, punching the accelerator.

  He drove about twenty feet before slamming on the brakes. “Where in the fuck am I going to go?” he groaned. “I know I have to get to the other side of the I-10, but how do I get there?”

  He swallowed hard, knowing that a trip down the freeway would be a suicide run. He glanced back at the woods, and let out a deep sigh.

  His long day was just getting longer.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hours later, Rogers trudged his way through the mountainous state park. He’d long since abandoned his vehicle when the path he’d been on had narrowed too much.

  The sun hung low in the sky, not quite dusk but rapidly approaching it. The air was thick, with that sense of death and danger that it held since the outbreak, but also a desperation as well. That feeling that he had nothing left—that he needed to carry on, needed to remind himself that he still had to fight even though everything that mattered to him was gone.

  He tensed at the sound of gunshots in the distance, freezing to strain his ears. As they echoed again, he relaxed, estimating that the shooters were far enough away that they weren’t a threat.

  Rogers eventually emerged from the thick trees into a clearing, and stared down at the city below. He clenched his jaw at the sight of muzzle flashes all over the place, as if a wild celebration was going on. He stared daggers at it, imagining himself covered in the blood of his enemies, standing atop a pile of bodies holding Angel Rivas’ severed head.

  He turned, fire in his heart, and headed up a nearby hill, and then froze at the top.

  A group of elderly people sat in the grass, several young children
tussling around them. The older people looked like a deer caught in the headlights at the sight of the man cresting the hill with a bloody scarf around his head carrying four guns.

  The children noticed him and stopped, curling up with their elders, and the closest man cleared his throat, pushing a toddler behind him as he addressed Rogers.

  “Are you here to do us harm?” he asked, wrinkled face pale.

  The detective shook his head at the grey-haired man. “No. You have nothing to fear from me.”

  The man pursed his lips for a moment and then waved him over. “Well, if that’s the case, then why don’t you join us?” he asked. “We don’t have a whole lot, but we can spare a bottle of water if you’re interested.”

  Rogers nodded and holstered his weapon, securing the rifle on his back before striding over. He took a seat beside the old man and gratefully accepted a lukewarm bottle of water.

  “The name’s Barry,” the old man introduced, staring at the blood crusted side of his new acquaintance’s face.

  Rogers chugged half of the bottle in a single gulp, avoiding curious gazes as he stared down into the trees. “I’m detective Rogers,” he finally replied. “At least I was, when the day began.”

  “Forgive me for being blunt, detective,” Barry said slowly, “but it looks like you’ve had a hell of a day.”

  “Barry, my friend,” Rogers replied, unable to stop the exhausted chuckle from escaping his lips, “that doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

  The old man inclined his head to one of the women next to him. “Helena, can you please bring the first aid kit over here?”

  “It’s fine, really,” Rogers insisted.

  Barry shook his head. “It’s no trouble.”

  An older lady with dark brown hair headed over, carrying a plastic grocery bag filled with rudimentary medical supplies.

  Rogers cocked a small smile. “Looks like one of those high-end first aid kits.”

  “Nothing but the best for you, detective,” Barry replied with an exaggerated wave of his hand.

  Rogers raised an eyebrow. “So tell me, Helena, were you at least a nurse before this all went down?”

  “No,” she replied as she approached him with her hands full. “But I did raise four boys on a schoolteacher’s salary. With our lack of money, the only time I’d take them to the hospital was if they lost a significant appendage. Everything else I took care of.” She reached up and began to unwrap the makeshift bandage.

  Rogers chuckled. “Well, as you’ll soon find out, I am missing an ear.”

  She smirked. “I said significant appendage.”

  He nodded, and then winced as she peeled the final layer of the scarf away from his head. The wound was pretty significant, ripping the ear completely off of his head. He swallowed hard as the air hit it, and she opened the bottle of antiseptic.

  “Here it comes, cowboy,” Helena said, and before he could respond she splashed it on the side of his head.

  He clenched his jaw as the side of his head erupted in a fresh wave of burning pain, and let out a choked thank you before letting out a deep ragged breath.

  “So, Barry,” he asked when he caught his breath, and Helena began to dab lightly around the wound. “What are y’all doing up here?”

  “The cartel is on a warpath,” Barry replied with a deep sigh. “At first, they were just taking out people who had the sickness. Or who they thought had it. But after they ambushed the police, they started killing anyone they didn’t think could be useful. The people on our street were all rounded up and put into an office. They went person by person, pulling out anyone who was young and healthy, taking them to god knows where.

  “Eventually they got down to just us in the room.” He paused, voice thickening. “They… they started shooting us one by one. One man tried to fight back, but was unsuccessful, so they tortured him for a few minutes before finally putting him down. Guess it was their way of telling us to sit down and take it.

  “I thought we were done for until a neighborhood teenager busted in with a handgun and started firing wildly. He hit one of the men in the chest, and distracted the other gunman long enough for a couple of us to overwhelm him. Once freed, we came up here, since we didn’t really have anyplace else to go.”

  Helena finished bandaging up the detective’s ear, leaving a huge white gauze pad on the side of his head, secured with white medical tape. “There you go, all patched up. We’ll have to keep an eye on it, however.”

  “Thank you, Helena,” he said, with a warm smile.

  They sat in silence for a few minutes, the echoes of the gunfire in the celebration below a macabre background to what should have been a peaceful night in the forest.

  “Detective,” Barry finally said, “is anyplace safe for us?”

  Rogers took a deep breath, glancing down at the toddler peeking at him from behind the old man’s back, her big brown eyes wide and curious.

  “I was instructed to go to Fabens,” he replied. “Told it was safe there.”

  Barry raised an eyebrow. “Who told you that?”

  “The man who did this,” Rogers said, pointing to his bandaged ear.

  Barry’s eyes widened in horror and confusion. “Why in the world would you take advice from that man?”

  “Because he very easily could have put the bullet here,” the detective replied, pointing at his forehead, “and he chose not to.”

  Barry nodded thoughtfully. “Very well. But that’s going to be quite the journey, especially for some of us old fogeys. Any plans on how to get out there?”

  “We’ll head east on the 601,” Rogers explained. “It runs between Fort Bliss and the Airfield. With the military cutting tail and running, it will hopefully be vacant. There are a couple of stores along the way, so with any luck, we’ll find some transportation to help us out.”

  Barry nodded. “If we’re going by the store, we might consider picking up some supplies. We barely have enough food and water to get us through tomorrow.”

  “Well, in that case, we’d better get a move on,” Rogers declared. “My guess is the cartel is going to celebrate their victory tonight before branching out and looting the outlying stores. So it’s tonight or nothing for us.”

  “Agreed,” Barry said. “I’ll get my people ready to go, if you want to lead us out.”

  Rogers nodded and got to his feet, downing the rest of his warm water before staring back at the raucous city. He clenched his jaw. His retribution would have to wait.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rogers drove the lead vehicle slowly down the darkened highway towards the small town of Fabens. In reality, town was a bit of a stretch. It was really a single road leading off of the interstate with a handful of storefronts lining it. There were two residential streets running parallel to the main drag, filled with low-end housing.

  The detective kept a keen eye out for trouble, and was disconcerted by the lack of anything. No movement, no zombies, no cartel, nothing. He slowed to a crawl and moved past several stores before a set of headlights flashed them in the distance.

  “What do you think, Barry?” Rogers asked thoughtfully.

  He shrugged. “If I didn’t know better, I’d assume someone was awaiting your arrival. Here’s hoping they’re friendly.”

  Rogers cocked his handgun. “Just in case they aren’t.”

  He led the convoy towards the flashing headlights, pulling into a parking lot in front of a strip mall. There were two SUVs in the lot, one of them with a moving trailer attached to the back.

  “Y’all stay in the car,” Rogers instructed. “When I get out, I want you to get behind the wheel. If this goes south, at least you’ll have a chance.”

  Barry nodded. “Be careful.”

  The detective slowly got out of the vehicle, standing behind the door to hide his gun behind it. A few tense moments passed before two cartel members got out of the opposing lead SUV. The passenger held an AK-47, but kept it pointed at the ground.

  T
he driver was a young well-dressed man, somewhere in his thirties, of average height and build. Rogers wrinkled his nose at the fact that he wore sunglasses even though it was nighttime.

  “I assume that you are detective Rogers?” the man called.

  The detective squared his shoulders. “I could be. Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Francisco,” he replied, spreading his hands. “I’m a close associate of Rodriguez.”

  Rogers’s shoulders relaxed a bit, and walked around to the front of the car, still holding his handgun.

  “Is that really necessary, detective?” Francisco pointed at the weapon.

  Rogers motioned to the rifleman. “Is that really necessary, Francisco?”

  The man smiled and waved for the man to put the weapon back in the car. He complied immediately, and Rogers holstered his own. Francisco approached and extended his hand, and the detective hesitated for a moment before firmly shaking his hand.

  The cartel member’s face erupted in a smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, detective.”

  “You wanna tell me what you’re doing here?” Rogers asked. “Hell, you wanna tell me what I’m doing here?”

  “It’s quite simple, detective,” Francisco replied. “Some of us in the Rivas cartel disagree with the current course of action. Rodriguez, myself, and others have taken it upon ourselves to right some of the wrongs that are taking place.”

  Rogers crossed his arms. “So y’all are the good guys now?”

  Francisco let out a deep belly laugh. “Thank you, detective, I needed that,” he gasped, wiping faux tears from his eyes. “No, I assure you, we are very much still the bad guys. However, we are bad guys with rules that we dare not break. And one of those rules is being against the senseless murder of civilians. We understood that drastic measures needed to be taken to combat the plague that was rampaging through our cities, but we believed that shouldn’t include murdering people like the ones in your caravan.”

  Rogers clenched his fists. “Then why didn’t you do something to stop it?”