Only The Dead Don't Die | Book 4 | Finding Home

by Popovich, A. D.

  “Then what?” Luther probed.

  “Once the arrangements are set, I’ll meet you at Quinton’s and take you to the LZ.” Zac strapped on his duffle. “Landing zone, that is. And we’ll helo it out of Last State.”

  “How will you explain us?” Dean questioned.

  “Simple. I always select my team. It’s one of my stipulations. Congrats, you all made the cut. You just need to dress the part. Quinton has plenty of military gear, so help yourselves. Once I arrange the evac, we’ll march right onto the helo.”

  “What about baby Mateo and Twila?” Ella asked in a tiny voice.

  “Artillery cases. If you don’t mind small places until we land?” Zac turned to Twila.

  Twila shrugged.

  “But where are we going?” Ella pleaded in the background to no avail.

  “How do we keep the pilot from ratting us out?” Luther asked.

  Zac cocked an intriguing brow. “I find bribery works.”

  The roar of the helicopter deafened the conversation. The room seemed to spin as if caught in the vortex of the helicopter’s rotor blades. Scarlett grabbed onto the windowsill to keep her balance, hoping no one noticed her vertigo.

  “Holy sh—crap! It’s landing. Here!” Justin turned to Dean. “What should we do?”

  “Justin, heads up.” Zac tossed him a pouch. “Re-chip the adults with these RFIDs. Destroy any old ones. I always carry extras due to my wife-collecting habit.” Zac laughed, but nobody else did. “These give you XYZ Zone clearance. Preloaded with one thousand LSCs. Trust me, it won’t buy much.” He flashed her one of his irresistible, boyish grins.

  Scarlett forced a smile and resisted the urge to question his audacious plan. Zac knew what he was doing. Still, everything was happening too fast. Were they making the right decision? The sharp metallic taste of blood cut into her lips, reminding her that Hu-manity was heartbeats away from extinction based on their future decisions.

  From her view out the opposite window, the dried grasses flattened at the edge of the clearing where the helicopter touched down. There was no place to run. No attic. No basement. No outbuildings.

  “Justin, get Ella and the baby into the last shower stall,” Dean ordered. “Scarlett, Twila, that goes for the two of you as well.”

  Luther eyed the helicopter through the scope of his M4. “Got a clear shot. I can get two of them before they know what hit them. Just say the word, bro.”

  “Better not,” Zac advised. “My handler’s simply making a courtesy call. Hoping to recoup his investment. That helo’s armed with shoot-to-kill mercenaries. I’m an asset, remember. And a lil’ bit AWOL. Once I explain my botched mission, things will cool down. They can’t possibly know about the women and children.”

  “We don’t know what happened to Krasinski and Lopez,” Justin ranted on. “What if they sold us out for the reward?”

  So much to consider. So many ways this could go wrong. Scarlett wanted to run straight into Zac’s arms and beg him not to leave her. To never leave her again. But she couldn’t move. She merely stood there like a fly glued to the flippin’ wall.

  Zac remained steadfast. “Get to Quinton’s. Pronto.” He set a leather bag on the dresser. “Luther, you’re in charge of the Elite Gold. Each tab is one gram of ninety-nine percent gold. It will get you out of any S-H-T-F scenario.”

  “Damn!” Luther goggled. “Where’d you get that?”

  “Got connections,” Zac said with a swagger.

  Justin scurried a groggy Ella and the baby to the bathroom. Twila followed without any debate. Dean ushered her in. From the bathroom door, Scarlett turned back to Zac. With beseeching eyes, she cried out, “Don’t go!”

  He answered back, “Babe, if I don’t walk out of here like I don’t give a shit, they’ll know something’s up.” And he grabbed his M4 and strutted out the door.

  “It’s about time you showed up,” Zac ragged. The door slammed shut behind him.

  Bring him back safely, Scarlett pleaded to the cosmos. His charming smile appeared in her inner vision. A heaviness descended upon her when a rush of negativity flooded over her. She couldn’t lose him so soon. She’d only been with him a few precious hours. The best hours of her life since she had been with him last.

  The room spun.

  ***

  Scarlett awoke to find Ella and Twila on each side of her.

  Dean loomed over her. “Did you get one of those—messages?” he asked, concern seeping into his voice.

  “No, I’m afraid I just fainted.” She didn’t admit she had fainted because she couldn’t bear losing Zac.

  “You probably need some carbs,” Luther said. “I’ll grab the case of MREs from the truck.”

  “I don’t get it. Why’d Zac go back?” Justin criticized.

  Dean patted Justin’s shoulder. “Think ’bout it. Ella just gave birth. She can barely walk. If he thinks a helicopter’s the best way out of here, we ought to trust his instincts.”

  One last mission, Scarlett mused. The infamous last words of many an overconfident man.

  “The man with the weird-looking mustache wants Zac— Dead . . .” Twila’s words trailed off.

  Scarlett struggled up from the lower bunk. “Warn him.”

  “I’ll try. If he listens to me. Why didn’t you ever listen to me?” Twila turned to Justin.

  Justin pointed to his chest. “Moi?” He had the most incredulous look of disbelief on his face as he rolled his eyes in retaliation.

  “Okay, I told him,” Twila proudly informed the inquisitive faces in the room.

  Luther muttered from the window. “Enough of the Voodoo already.”

  “So, now what?” Justin moped around the room.

  “We wait it out for the time being and keep the place guarded,” Dean said matter-of-factly. “When the HAZMAT crew’s done mopping up, I’ll go chat up Mr. Stanwyck for petrol like Zac mentioned. Justin, I don’t want you going near the house. Don’t forget, you’re on the Most Wanted list.”

  “He’s right,” Ella said firmly.

  Scarlett’s depression reached a new low. How were they getting out of this dilemma? Based on the furrowed brows in the room, everyone except Mateo seemed to understand that once again time ticked backward. Erasing mankind from the Akashic Records.

  Chapter 2

  Dean Wormer kept himself busy by tidying the bunkhouse after they had polished off a round of MREs. Dad-blast-it! No amount of Rolaids could relieve the sour aftertaste hinting something other than his chronic heartburn was amiss.

  A discombobulated Scarlett moped about, recovering from her recent imprisonment. It must have been a traumatic experience. She hadn’t mentioned a single word about it. Who would have thought dead-heads had the smarts to organize a kidnapping? The real miracle—the dead-heads hadn’t turned her into one of them. Something beyond his comprehension was occurring, albeit mystical or just downright evil.

  Ella remained surprisingly calm given their precarious situation. She was most likely worn out from giving birth. Justin, on the other hand, paced around like a bull in a pasture full of heifers in heat. Dean understood all too well. Justin was a daddy now; it had a way of changing everything. The responsibility of protecting Ella and the baby must be daunting at the very least.

  Twila’s deadpan demeanor had him on edge. This callous new world had stolen her childhood. Why, she should be baking mud pies or playing video games, or whatever kids did nowadays. How had Scarlett protected her this entire time? It was a wonder they hadn’t succumbed to post-apocalyptic despair.

  Luther seemed to be the only one firing on all cylinders. Although the fellow kept his feelings to himself for the most part. Nonetheless, he was a hard-core survivalist. Don’t mess with good ol’ Luther. Tall, dark, and mysterious fit his persona to the T. Once the fellow set his mind to something, there was no stopping him.

  Dean stewed over the guilt of leaving Mindy and her baby behind at Zac’s hunting lodge. If only Mindy had joined them instead of goin
g off on her own. The cold-hearted facts were what they were. They could not save everyone. As for himself, he didn’t know how he had outwitted the Super Summer flu’s un-deadly aftermath. Someone in high places must be watching after him.

  Luther eyed Dean questionably. “It’s going on two hours since the hit squad rolled out of here.”

  “The Blue Suits are almost done,” Justin said. “They’re loading the body bags in the HAZMAT van.”

  Body bags. Dean balked. What a heartless task that must be. “Think it’s time I talk Mr. Stanwyck into some petrol.” Dean was suddenly curious to know if the RedDead Alert had been called off. They needed intel before traipsing off to the Forbidden Zone. “Luther, you mind giving me some of that gold. Enough for a tank of gas.”

  Luther pulled out the leather bag. “Never saw no gold like this.” Luther grunted, holding up a sheet of gold. “It looks like a credit card made of punch-out tabs of gold.”

  Dean was familiar with CombiBars, a convenient way for smalltime investors to buy gold. “Say, Justin, how many grams of gold does a tank of gas go for nowadays?”

  “Meh, just a gram. Two, if they’re greedy?” Justin added.

  Luther punched out two mini-bars. “Don’t say I never gave you nothing,” Luther zinged.

  Dean recognized the distinctive five-pointed star imprinted on each gram. “Looks like Texas got the Lone Star State motto right from the get-go,” he theorized aloud, referring to the fact that Texas, dubiously renamed as Last State, was all that remained of the once almighty United States.

  “Remember,” Justin said, “gold’s totally illegal—unless you’re an Elite.”

  “I used Zhetto coins at the Zhetto Market. Just be discreet,” Scarlett chipped in. “People covet it too much to turn you in.”

  “Alrighty then.” Dean zipped the gold inside his hunting vest pocket for safekeeping.

  “You want me to come with?” Luther asked.

  “Better stay here and keep an eye on things,” Dean decided. “Unless Scarlett thinks otherwise.” They should take advantage of everyone’s skill set, even if it bordered on paranormal. “Got any warnings for me?”

  “I’m not getting any messages. But”—she paused—“Twila’s right. It’s not safe here.”

  “And you?” Dean turned to Twila who was unusually taciturn. “Do you have any specific warnings for me?”

  “Ye-ah, like is a hella-horde coming for us?” Justin jabbered on.

  Ella scowled at Justin from the edge of the bunk and clutched her newborn closer to her chest.

  Twila kicked the wall in a bout of fury. “A dark and heavy energy is blocking me.” She looked at the ceiling and held her hands to her head. “Oh no! The bad-d-d ones are sneaking closer. They’re trying to trick us! I can’t see them. But I feel their yucky energies.”

  Questioning eyes awaited Dean’s response. He thought about it long and hard, asking for the most reasonable course of action to come to mind. One wrong decision and his friends, whom he had grown to love as his own flesh and blood . . . wouldn’t survive. He refused to think about the fate of all humankind; Scarlett carried that colossal burden. He just wanted to get them through another day.

  “Say, Twila, how’s ’bout you focus on that shield of protection?” Dean said encouragingly, if only to relieve the fear emanating from Ella’s eyes.

  “My Merkaba is up. But I think the bad ones are learning to see into our bubble of protection.” Twila’s haunted tone resonated deep within his core.

  Bona fide fear seemed to take over the room. The baby’s silly gurgling reminded him what was at stake. By God, he had to think of something if the newborn were to have a chance. “Obviously, we can’t stay here.” An image of the crying baby alerting passersby interrupted his train of thought.

  Luther cleared his throat awkwardly and cut in. “Where is it safe?”

  “No place,” Twila said glumly.

  “Twila—” Scarlett frowned.

  “Mommy, you told me not to lie.”

  “There’s a difference between lying and being tactful,” Scarlett gently scolded.

  Dean wanted to laugh. Diplomacy wasn’t in Twila’s nature. His son had always been brutal with the truth. Dean supposed Kyle had inherited that trait from him. After years of marriage and many senseless arguments, Dean had learned to perfect the skill when he had a mind to do so. When I’m not busy being a curmudgeon, that is.

  “I’d better get to the Stanwyck’s.” He didn’t want to be out there alone on the plains once the sun dipped below the horizon.

  “Take the truck,” Luther suggested.

  He rubbed his chin. “Not a bad idea.” If it ran out of gas on the way, he would walk. “You mind unloading the pickup’s camper for a quick inventory?” They hadn’t had time to salvage much from the lodge, but Zac and Luther had a slew of weaponry and supplies leftover from Scarlett’s rescue mission.

  On the upside, Justin had thought to grab the pack with Ella’s special healing tea before bailing out the lodge’s third-story window when escaping the X-strain horde. Realistically, how long would the tea last? One problem at a time. First, they had to get out of this mess.

  Luther retrieved the army-green duffles from the back of the camper. “You sure you don’t want me to ride shotgun?”

  A churning sensation gnawed away at Dean’s gut. “Naw, you’re needed here. Scarlett and Justin aren’t up to snuff yet.” He had a feeling he better return with that petrol on the double.

  Luther wrinkled his nose. “Watch it out there. I can smell them . . .”

  Dean adjusted the pickup’s seat. “Well, Zoat’s practically in the Stanwyck’s backyard.” Why they chose to live so close to the dead-head-filled moat was beyond him. He turned the key, thankful it coughed to a start on the third try, though the fuel tank was none too happy when he revved the engine.

  “Just so you know, if you aren’t back in an hour,” Luther shouted after him, “I’m coming for you.”

  Comforting to know someone’s watching my back. Dean acknowledged with a wave out the window as he drove toward the Stanwyck’s house, which stuck out like a sore thumb in the flat grasslands.

  The pickup jostled through the various switch grasses. The shocks were shot, and it wasn’t helping his tailbone none. He offered a friendly shout-out to the HAZMAT crew as he drove by. He felt for them. Those cumbersome suits were stifling hot according to Kyle.

  The hackles on the back of his neck went berserk. His newfound early warning system was in full-gear. He grabbed the Bushnells from the front seat, baffled by the bending tufts of wild grasses just ahead.

  “Grandpa Dean!” Twila’s scream pierced his inner hearing, giving his recent stent operation a run for its money.

  Dead-heads sprang up from the grasses as if they had been lying in wait to ambush—some ole sucker. Before he knew it, they had him surrounded. He slammed the gas pedal and laid on the horn to warn . . . everyone. The wind better be blowing in the bunkhouse’s direction. Sound waves had a way of evaporating into the vast void of the plains. Come to think of it, why hadn’t those godawful things attacked the HAZMAT crew?

  “They don’t want them,” an unsolicited voice disclosed.

  He rammed over three snarling, emaciated dead-heads. Had they been waiting for the clean-up crew to leave? Naw, those things aren’t cognizant enough to wait patiently. The helter-skelter approach was more their modus operandi, devouring what they could. Nonetheless, Dean couldn’t shake the notion he had inadvertently foiled a surprise attack on the bunkhouse.

  In a blink of an eye, the pickup’s windows shrouded over with the ghoulish, flesh-molten faces of the undead. Through a gap between the faces, he peered through the windshield, all the while blasting the horn. Not that it would do him much good.

  He swerved the pickup this way and that and managed to lose a few. He refused to think the worst-case scenario—running out of gas at that precise moment. Luckily for him, he had hand-cranked the windows shut a minute ea
rlier.

  “Hell’s bells!” One of those ugly suckers hung from the roof rack. It punched the passenger’s window—punching until raw bone protruded from the knuckle. No amount of swerving was losing the bastard. And even worse, the two dead-heads dangling from the roof outside his door went into a flurry, punching the window.

  Dean reached for his Glock, remembering all too well he had left the extra mags with Luther. This many X-strains required more than one fully loaded magazine. He knew that for damn sure. On impulse, he swung open his door, knocking off the bastards.

  He slammed the brakes and lost darn near half the ones clinging to the wiper cowl at the base of the windshield. None the matter, they’d be back on the pickup in seconds. He drove over as many as he could before they found their feet.

  “Naw . . .” The passenger’s side window crackled like an ice-covered puddle in the noonday sun. A dead-head dove halfway into the front seat—licking its chops. Dean was ready for it. It took two rounds to its skull at point-blank range to convince it otherwise.

  Another sucker shoved through the window. With one hand on the wheel and one firing away, he aptly disposed of it. Albeit, spending more precious rounds.

  The honking of horns brought him out of his despair as he fired into the skull of a dead-head cackling inches from his face. From the big house, four pickups raced toward him. Stanwyck’s men!

  Another one leaped through the passenger’s broken window. He fired away—until the dull click made his stomach broil over. Flat out of ammo. It lolled its putrid head back as if pleased with its good fortune.

  Not so fast. He Gibbs-slapped it with the Glock’s butt. And then the pickup stalled. Most likely out of gas.

  “Grandpa Dean?”

  The terror in little Twila’s voice chilled his heart. Hope she’s not watching this via a psychic satellite of the mind. He didn’t want her witnessing his untimely demise. He was down to his last resort and knew he would regret his next move. He popped open the door. Using mind over matter, he willed his body to go limp as a rag doll. He simply rolled out the door and onto the grass.