Riker's Apocalypse (Book 3): The Precipice

by Chesser, Shawn

  Impressive, Riker thought as he took the radio back.

  Thumbing the Talk button, he said, “Did you all get that?”

  There was a ten-second patch of dead air, during which a fusillade of gunfire could be heard from inside the fire engine’s cab.

  Riker was craning to see beyond the distant EarthRoamer when the radio came alive with Shorty’s voice. Sounding a bit winded, he said, “I’ve been listening. And I get it all right. But when she sees what we’re seeing right now, she’s going to want to hop out and run her butt back to wherever it is she came from. Hell, it’s even got me thinking about turning tail and getting out of Dodge.”

  Coming up behind the parked EarthRoamer, Riker steered the fire engine off the asphalt feeder road, rolled the right-hand-side wheels up and over the curb, then drove forward a few feet on the white cement sidewalk.

  As Riker parked the fire engine parallel to the other two vehicles, its front bumper even with the Shelby, he saw that Shorty and Benny were dismounted and had made quick work of the zombies that had gathered at the gate while they were gone.

  Unbuckling his seatbelt, Riker got his first good look at what had rendered Benny speechless and Shorty contemplating retreat. Clear of zombies an hour ago, the larger of the two lots was now home to scores of them. Looking right, he saw that the lot in front of the main, glass-fronted building was also crowded with zombies. And to make matters worse, dead things were still staggering through the building’s destroyed front doors.

  Eyes wide, forehead just inches from the engine’s nearly vertical windshield, Lia said, “You’ve got to be shitting me, dude. We’re not going in there … are we?”

  “Not we,” Riker said as he set the brakes. “Just me. I’m going it alone.”

  Chapter 17

  Lia was on her knees on the passenger side of the bench seat, hinged over the seatback and rooting around the backseat area when Riker elbowed open his door. Pausing before stepping to the ground, he said, “I’m going to need you to get out.”

  Voice muffled, Lia said, “That’s my plan.” Coming up clutching a gray sweatshirt a size or two too big for her, she followed Riker’s lead, shouldering open her own door and climbing down to the sidewalk.

  Working swiftly, Riker collected the Jaws of Life and backboard he’d stashed in back of the fire engine. While there, he also grabbed a specialized tool he guessed was used to breach locked doors, vent the roofs of burning buildings, and pry open uncooperative windows. It was almost a yard in length and milled from some kind of alloy. A super-sized version of the claw-like nail-puller found on most garden-variety hammers protruded from one end. Affixed at a ninety-degree angle on the opposite end of the weighty tool was a sturdy-looking wedge sprouting two sharpened tines.

  Riker lugged the items to the Shelby and set them on the ground by the open tailgate.

  Under the watchful gaze of the others, Riker retrieved the second backboard he’d stashed under the Shelby’s tonneau.

  Shorty stepped up to Riker. “Benny told me about the warden and her men. You want to read me in on this rescue operation of yours?”

  Riker held up a hand. “In a second. Wait until everyone is here. In the meantime, I need a few shotgun shells. Got any?”

  “In my rig. Be right back.”

  Riker gave the pair of lots a quick look. The zombies were now acutely aware of their presence and migrating en masse toward the gate. They were coming from all directions. Thankfully, there were no Bolts breaking from the pack—yet.

  Shorty returned with a box of shells which Riker distributed between several of his pockets.

  A couple of seconds apart, Benny and Lia arrived from entirely opposite directions.

  “What’s going on?” Benny asked.

  Lia stood back from the group, apparently content being the fly on the wall.

  “Steve-O,” Riker called, “come on out and give me a hand.” Regarding Benny and Shorty, he said, “I need you guys to go ahead and take care of any deaders that make it to the gate. Do it quietly. I figure this place holds several hundred inmates. The ones already out in the open are probably just a small fraction of them. You discharge a firearm right now, the ones still inside won’t be for long.”

  Benny asked, “What are you doing?”

  Riker spent a few seconds going over his plan. When he was finished, he looked over the assembled group.

  Shorty said, “Sounds like you’re trying to be a hero.”

  To which Riker responded, “I’m no hero. Just putting myself in their shoes. It’s what I should have done at your place. Can’t turn back time, though.”

  Benny said, “I don’t like it.” He ran a hand through his lengthening salt-and-pepper hair and looked skyward. “Tara will kill me if anything happens to you.”

  Grateful his choice of words didn’t have Steve-O launching into a Cher song, Riker said, “She’ll kick my ass posthumously, too. I’ll be careful.”

  Fixing Riker with a serious look, Steve-O said, “Do you need a wingman on the inside?”

  Trapping a backboard under one well-muscled arm, Riker picked the Jaws of Life off the ground with one hand, entry tool with the other. Gripped by a sense of urgency, he said, “Steve-O, you can help out by grabbing the other backboard and following me.”

  Benny had parked the Shelby a few yards farther back from the guardhouse than when they were here last. The tire spikes were a full truck length beyond the Shelby’s front bumper.

  Arriving at the tire spikes, Riker took a knee and deposited the items he’d been carrying. Forgetting about the tools for the moment, he took the backboard from Steve-O.

  “Oh,” exclaimed Steve-O, “these aren’t for hurt people on the inside. They’re to cover the spikes so you don’t pop your tires coming out.”

  “Nail on the head, Steve-O. Easier than breaking into the guardhouse and trying to figure out how to get them retracted with no electricity going to them.” He paused and fixed the man with a serious stare. “But they won’t be needed to cover the spikes until I drive out of there.” Riker laid the backboards down near the retractable spikes. “It’s going to be your job to place these over the spikes after I drive the fire engine through the gate.” He demonstrated the task, then said, “Just like that, Wingman.”

  “I got it,” Steve-O said. Then, as Riker scooped the tools off the ground, Steve-O asked with all the exuberance of a kid on Christmas morning, “Can I sit in the fire engine when you get back?”

  “Sure you can.”

  “Make the lights flash?”

  “And sound the siren, too. Sure Steve-O, you can do all that when I’m done in there.”

  Steve-O pumped his fist.

  Leaving Steve-O at his assigned position, Riker hurried over to the guardhouse and again set the tools on the ground.

  The up-close look at the guardhouse confirmed Riker’s suspicion: The gate was going to be the path of least resistance. While the door to the tiny guardhouse at the entry to Sunset Island in Miami Beach had been simple to breach—as easy as tearing the sliding door off the tracks and walking right in—this fortified number would be nothing of the sort. With bulletproof windows and steel-reinforced doors, even if he used the Jaws of Life, Riker was afraid that getting inside to disengage the gate would take a lot of effort and burn precious time they didn’t have.

  The rolling gate consisted of chain-link panels that had been welded and trussed for extra stability. Multiple strands of tightly strung razor wire ran the entire length up top. Electrically operated, the gate moved left-to-right, the wheels guided precisely by the sunken V-track.

  Though the gate was designed to take a beating, Riker was afraid that if he used the pneumatic expander the frame would get crushed and the gate would be rendered inoperable.

  Part of the plan called for Shorty and Benny to close and secure the gate once Riker was on the inside. Which left Riker no choice but to rely on the firefighter’s entry tool and his own brute strength.

  Entrusti
ng Shorty and Benny with the task of culling the zombies that were soon to arrive, Riker quickly inspected the gate’s mechanisms.

  The end of the gate nearest the guardhouse was secured by a pair of electric solenoids. That the power was out and the gate remained secure told Riker there was also a mechanical latch. A failsafe in case of a complete power failure, backup generators and all.

  Crossing to the opposite side, some thirty feet from the guardhouse, Riker identified the third locking mechanism. It was incorporated in the track and wheel system and solely mechanical in nature. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, I can defeat all three with the entry tool.

  The recessed receiver was secured to the brick building with masonry screws. The screws were flush-mount items and partially concealed by the gate’s locking mechanism when it was in the closed position.

  Acting on that glass-half-full attitude, he worked the flat end of the tool through the narrow slot between the gate and guardhouse. Facing the guardhouse, he dropped to one knee—the left, on which his prosthetic was attached—then planted his right Salomon against the low curb of the walkway encircling the guardhouse.

  Drawing a deep breath, he tightened his grip on the tool and hauled back on it. Neck muscles corded and with beads of sweat forming on his brow and upper lip, he increased the pressure until the brick started to release its hold on the masonry fasteners.

  A full minute of prying on the three edges he could access with the tool brought mixed results. Though five of the eight screws were now lying on the ground before Riker, the ones on the inside edge were being troublesome.

  Trying hard to ignore the mental image of the advancing dead, with their reaching hands and gnashing teeth, Riker slid the tool across the ground to Benny. “Work on the wheel latch.” He pulled his multi-tool from a pocket, opened it up and selected the flathead screwdriver.

  By this time, the lead element of the dead streaming from the main lot was within fifty yards of the gate.

  “Be my eyes,” Riker said to Shorty and pressed his cheek to the brick wall. Literally trusting life and limb to Shorty, Riker threaded one arm through the widening gap where the recessed latch was coming loose from the guardhouse wall. Working blind, he got the multi-tool wedged under the inside edge of the stubborn latch. After expending a lot of energy prying and moving the tool and then going at the latch again from a different angle, Riker popped out two of the three remaining screws.

  “I think I got it,” exclaimed Benny. “You almost ready?”

  Before Riker could answer, an agitated Shorty was telling anyone listening that time was running short.

  Letting his actions do the speaking, Riker collected the Jaws of Life off the ground and relieved Benny of the entry tool. “Be ready,” he said, shooting his friend a serious look. “We only have one shot at this.”

  “Open and shut,” Benny said. “We’ll make it happen.”

  Standing near the guardhouse, Lia said, “What can I do?”

  In passing, Riker said, “Just stand by and be ready to offer a hand if needed.”

  Lia crossed her arms. Classic defensive posture. I don’t like being underutilized was the silent message Riker received.

  The Jaws of Life and entry tool went in back of the still-idling fire engine.

  Riker quickly took his seat at the wheel and got the truck rolling past the Shelby.

  At the gate, Benny and Shorty each had a handful of fence. They were bundles of nervous energy, coiled and ready to spring into action on cue.

  One eye on the advancing dead and one on the approaching fire engine, Shorty uttered a foxhole prayer, asking for their portly bell cow in county-orange to trip on a shoelace or something. Not that jailers let inmates have such a thing, but it was the thought that counted.

  Seeing that the dead were nearly at the gate, a shuffling wall of orange enveloped by the sickly-sweet stench of death, Benny said, “You think we’ll get it closed before they reach the threshold?”

  “In case we don’t,” Shorty mumbled, “you better be Quick Draw McGraw with that Glock of yours.”

  Though Lia was anticipating the “Go” signal, she nearly came out of her skin when the fire engine’s horn blared. When the long, drawn-out blast sounded, she was standing with her back pressed to the guardhouse windows. Shorty and Benny were to her left and just beginning to haul the gate back in its track, and, on her right, Steve-O was watching the fire engine roll over the front-facing tire spikes.

  With the fire engine a looming wall of red to Lia’s fore, and the chain-link gate clattering madly nearby with Benny and Shorty muscling it open ahead of the slow-moving monstrosity, the young woman suddenly felt compelled to do something she clearly hadn’t thought through to the end.

  Seeing a number of biters being swallowed up beneath the accelerating fire engine, she put her head down and ran after it. Staying in the engine’s blind spot, she sprinted through the open gate, acknowledging Benny and Shorty in passing with a wan smile.

  Negotiating a minefield of crushed zombies leaking internal organs and bodily fluids, Lia kicked away a pale hand reaching for her then leaped onto the retreating fire engine’s cluttered rear deck.

  Thinking for a split second that he’d been seeing things, Shorty kept to the plan. As soon as the truck was inside the perimeter and roaring across the lot toward the far fence-line, he immediately switched his hold on the gate and started running it back in its tracks.

  Knowing for sure what he had seen, Benny was rooted in place and staring at the surreal scene laid out before him. In the foreground, body parts and flattened torsos, some with snapped bones jutting forth, some still moving, were scattered amongst puddles of rainwater reflecting the front edge of more bad weather moving in fast from the south.

  In the middle distance, the fire engine was growing smaller, its every light ablaze and siren wailing.

  Finding the noisy vehicle and the stowaway out back irresistible to ignore, the throng of orange shirts altered course and gave chase.

  Inside the fire engine, having just been privy to all the stomach-churning sounds associated with a multitude of walking corpses being ground to mush, Riker was donning earmuffs left behind by one of the firefighters. Steering clear of the vehicles left parked on the lot, he aimed the rig at the fence bordering the prison’s east wall. Fifty feet from the fence, he steered hard left and commenced a sweeping counterclockwise turn that brought the guardhouse and feeder road back into view out the flat windshield.

  Chapter 18

  Coming out of the wide turn, the fire engine rapidly bleeding off speed, Riker stomped down hard on the accelerator pedal. As the perimeter fence slipped by off his right shoulder, he couldn’t help but think about the jam he’d gotten himself into. The knowledge that he, and only he, stood between the Reaper, Lord knows how many more zombies that were sure to spill from the main building, and the ultimate fate of the four survivors on the prison roof had started behind his eyes a pounding unlike any he’d experienced since coming face-to-face with the Pale Rider himself in the courtyard of Trinity House just a handful of days ago.

  Back then it was the lives of loved ones that had hung in the balance. Now it was only strangers. Strangers who represented to Riker a trio whose fates he longed to learn. Had the Harlans been killed that night on Shorty’s boat ramp? Or had they succeeded in fighting off the unexpected zombie attack?

  He figured the prospect of the older couple and their teenage nephew getting out of that scrape wasn’t too far of a stretch. After all, they had come cross country during the initial outbreak, managing to get by some of the same hastily thrown together military and state police roadblocks that he and Tara and Steve-O had successfully circumvented. At face value, Tobias and his nephew, Jessie, had seemed more than capable of taking care of themselves. Maria, though, was the wild card. She had remained alone in the truck with the Caveman camper when it all went down. If she had possessed a modicum of the confidence Lia exuded, Riker had a good feeling that Maria had gott
en their truck turned around, got her husband and nephew back aboard, and they all had lived to fight another day.

  It was the last part that troubled Riker. For if they had survived, he knew he was the top dog on their totem pole of retribution, Shorty coming in a close second.

  The only thing standing between success and failure was roughly a hundred feet from the fire truck’s grille. To say the wide expanse of wet asphalt between the slow-to-accelerate fire engine and distant guardhouse was a target-rich environment would be a monumental understatement.

  Speedometer needle creeping past ten miles per hour, Riker lined up the largest group of dead things with the approximate center of the windshield, then firmed his grip on the steering wheel.

  While the vibrations from plowing over the zombies near the gate had barely registered inside the cab, Riker knew the scores of rotters in his sights were going to have the truck bucking on its suspension like a wild bronco.

  Standing just outside the main gate, mouth agape, Shorty could only watch in horror as Lia monkeyed her way from the fire engine’s rear deck to the top-mounted ladder assembly. Though the sinewy young woman did so while exhibiting the agility of a Parkour master, once, when Riker jinked the wheel abruptly, she had been thrown overboard—just the fingers on one hand keeping her life literally hanging in the balance.

  Next to Shorty, a two-way radio poised just inches from his mouth, voice an octave or two above normal, Benny was frantically trying to get Riker to pick up his radio.

  Thanks to the earmuffs, the cacophony of human flesh thudding against the rig’s wide front bumper was lost to Riker. The vibrations that came with each new impact, he felt to the bone.