Riker's Apocalypse (Book 3): The Precipice

by Chesser, Shawn

  Like one of the souped-up imports in a Fast and Furious movie, the fire truck actually started to drift sideways atop the gore.

  One more lap, Riker thought as he regained control of the truck and again nosed it away from the gate. With the guardhouse and vehicles parked beyond it scrolling by in his side vision, he was so caught up in the grim task at hand that Benny’s wild gesticulations failed to grab his attention.

  The final pass was more of the same: former humans wearing county-orange and slack expressions going down like wheat to a combine.

  Slowing the truck to a crawl, Riker drove the length of the prison’s east fence, the buildings scrolling by maybe thirty feet to his right. Craning to see through the windshield, he scanned the entire length of the mostly flat roof, on the lookout for something to orientate himself as to where the warden and her men were located.

  Choosing a spot in the fence adjacent to where the prison wall bumped out a bit, an architectural element that had stuck in his mind during the aerial recon, he wheeled left and brought the engine to a complete stop.

  Watching the fence in his left mirror, he backed to within a few feet of it, put the transmission into Park, then set the brakes.

  Unsure of whether the motor needed to keep running to operate the turntable and ladder system, Riker let it idle.

  As he removed the earmuffs, the constant vacuum of silence he had enjoyed was replaced at once by the growl of the siren and clattering of the diesel engine. Leaning over, he found the toggle and silenced the siren. Next, he switched off the light bar and headlights.

  Having rendered the fire engine less of a draw for the dead, he clicked out of his belt and promptly popped a few more ibuprofen.

  Before committing to the great outdoors, where anything could be lurking—a zombie wrapped around the axle, or maybe one that had been caught up under the truck and dragged around only to be freed once the ride ended—he scanned all points of the compass.

  Left mirror: clear.

  Right mirror: also clear.

  There was nothing worth worrying about between the truck and gate, where, for some reason, everyone save for Lia was crowding the fence and waving at him.

  Remembering that he’d rolled the volume down low on the two-way and stowed it in a pocket, he patted himself down, feeling for the telltale lump.

  As soon as Riker felt his fingers brush the smooth plastic item deep in his jacket pocket, a series of knocks sounded directly above his head. He thought for sure there was a certain cadence to them. Something familiar to it. Then it dawned on him that what he had heard was the old shave and a haircut, two bits number.

  As he took the radio from his pocket, thumbing the volume up as he did so, his gaze was drawn to the pavement in front of the fire engine, where, the outline hazy due to high clouds and a watery sun, he saw the shadow of the thing knocking. It was long and lithe and crouched down low against the blocky outline of the roof-mounted light bar.

  Riker’s gut clenched at the thought of a zombie climbing onto the moving fire truck and somehow finding its way past the ladder apparatus and onto the roof directly above him. The fact that the thing was showing signs of intelligence—indicated by the intricate sequence of the knocks—not to mention the dexterity to perform a feat the likes of which he’d never witnessed one of the dead attempt was one hell of a game-changer.

  If all of it is true, he thought as he drew the Sig Legion and aimed it toward the exact spot on the roof where the monster’s shadow indicated it should be, then God help us all.

  In the next beat, as Riker was flicking off the Sig’s safety and finding the trigger with the pad of his finger, Shorty’s voice sprang from the tiny speaker. He was speaking rapid-fire. The message: “You picked up a passenger, Lee.”

  No shit, thought Riker, finger drawing up some of the trigger pull. While he knew his hearing was about to suffer great damage from the discharge in the enclosed space, leaning over and snatching the earmuffs off the seat next to him was out of the question.

  “It’s the woman,” Shorty blurted. “Lia followed you through the gate and had latched herself on back of your rig before I could do anything about it.” A short pause. “And answer your damn radio from now on.”

  Riker made no reply. Recognizing the ramifications had Shorty’s call come in just a half-second later, he was struck speechless and feeling sick to his stomach. As he holstered the Sig, Shorty said, “She’s not moving, Lee. Your driving nearly threw her off. I think maybe she was injured getting back aboard.”

  Riker threw open his door. Muttering expletives under his breath, he gripped the grab bar and planted his bionic on the fire truck’s running board.

  Coming in at six-foot-four in shoes meant that Riker didn’t need to stand on his toes to get a clear look at the roof. Actually, as he rose to full extension, both feet on the running board, he was looking down on the roof.

  Immediately Riker saw that it was indeed Lia casting the lithe shadow. However, she was now on her knees, back arched, chest rising and falling. When their gazes met, a sheepish grin broke on her face.

  Riker felt a wave of relief wash over him. In the short time since he’d met the woman, he’d actually taken a liking to her. While she was easy on the eyes—beautiful, actually—this liking, for now, was more of a big brother platonic kind than the romantic variety.

  The relief was short-lived, though, because the anger that was always simmering just beneath the surface—a side effect of CTE—reared its ugly head.

  “That was a damn fool move, Lia. For a hot second, I was convinced a Bolt had gotten on the roof and was communicating with me.”—Lia’s sheepish grin morphed to a look of incredulity—“That somehow it had evolved.” He held up his free hand, just a sliver of light showing between pointer finger and thumb. “I was this close to putting a few rounds through the roof. It would not have ended well for you.”

  Still breathing hard, the look of incredulity now a full-on frown, Lia said nothing.

  “Are you hurt? Did one of them bite you?”

  She shook her head. “No, just winded. Holding on to this thing while you whipped it around was more of a workout than I’ve had in days.”

  The hard edge to his voice softening, he said, “Why risk your life like that?”

  Before she could answer, Shorty was back on the radio issuing a warning that more biters were exiting the main building. “And we have an assload of them coming down the feeder road,” he added.

  Wondering how many zombies constituted an assload, Riker said, “No sense in keeping up the noise discipline. Go ahead and deal with them however you see fit.” Before signing out, he asked Shorty to keep a close eye on Steve-O. Finished, Riker regarded Lia. Her eyes said she wanted to talk about what had happened, but her mouth remained clamped shut, lips a thin white line against her deeply tanned face.

  After a brief pause, during which Riker grabbed a Nomex turnout coat off the backseat floor, he said, “You can tell me all about it whenever you’re ready to. But I need you to stay right here while I set the ground pads.”

  Seeing her nod, and taking it as a sign that she understood and would comply, he closed the door and jumped to the ground.

  A quick glance underneath the truck’s chassis told Riker it was free of ankle-grabbing biters.

  Having been exposed to all manner of emergency vehicles while in the Army, it didn’t take Riker long to find the controls and extend the ground pads—twin opposing outriggers essential in keeping the truck from tipping once the ladder was put to full extension.

  At the rear deck, Riker collected the Jaws of Life, balancing it on his shoulder, over top of the draped turnout jacket.

  Making his way to the side-mounted ladder, Riker lugged the tool and jacket up to the telescoping ladder deck, placed the items on the floor of what looked to him to be a three-man basket, then beckoned Lia over.

  Chapter 19

  With Dozer off-leash and leading the way, Tara traversed the path between the cl
earing and Trinity House without incident. Once she reached the trailhead across from the rear door, the smell of carrion hanging in the air was enough to make her grab a fistful of shirt and cover her mouth and nose.

  “Holy shit,” she said under her breath. “Methinks somebody forgot their Axe Body Wash.”

  Before stepping into the open, she paused off to the side of the trail and hailed Rose on the teal radio.

  A burst of white noise, then, “This is Rose.”

  Tara asked, “Where’s the rotter? I can smell it.”

  “Rotters. Plural,” Rose replied. “We have three of them roaming the turnaround. Another one is standing dead still right in front of the driveway gate. And there was a kid zombie. I don’t see him at the moment.”

  “Are any of them fast movers?”

  “I think they’re all Slogs.”

  “Think and know are two very different things,” Tara shot back. “One of those can get you killed.”

  Exasperation showing in her tone, Rose said, “What do you want me to do? Go bang on the gate? Throw one of Dozer’s balls across the cul-de-sac and see if any of them take off running after it?”

  “Forget it,” Tara said. “I’m coming in. Just make sure you let me know if you see any change in their behavior.”

  “My eyes won’t leave the screen,” Rose promised.

  Taking the discretion is the better part of valor road, Tara drew the Glock. After press checking the weapon to ensure a round was in the chamber, she did a quick turkey-peek in each direction. The stretch of open ground between the trailhead and where the east wall made a shallow left-to-right bend, maybe fifty feet total, was clear. To her right was a run of nearly a hundred feet. It, too, was clear.

  She said, “OK,” to get Dozer moving, then stepped from cover. As if somehow the thing had been alerted to their presence—which was absurd as hell to even think, let alone say out loud—a child-sized zombie emerged from behind the near corner. It was head-down and staring at the ground, all of its attention drawn to the fallen leaves crackling beneath its road-worn sneakers.

  Caught fifteen feet from the wall, Tara had to choose quickly between making a mad dash for the recessed door or standing her ground and confronting the threat.

  Reaching the door before being seen by the zombie might be doable. Working the keys in the pair of locks without the junior rotter catching on and giving chase was not going to happen.

  Tara hated seeing any kind of zombie. But the ones she hated seeing most were the kids. They should be home playing video games, out riding bikes with their friends—doing the things kids do.

  This one’s days of doing the things kids do had been over for a couple of weeks. Pustules dotted both arms. An inch or two north of its shirt collar, dead center on its scrawny neck, was a golf-ball-sized hole. The blood that had flowed from the wound and soiled the collar was dried and crusty. The kid had died the first time wearing blue jeans and a DAB CAT tee shirt. On the front of the shirt was a cat performing the pose Tara had most recently seen performed by none other than Usain Bolt. God, she hoped the shirt was false advertising.

  That hope was dashed when the undead kid grew tired of the noise made by the leaves, leveled a dead-eyed stare in her direction, and broke into an all-out sprint. Stick-thin arms pumping in near-perfect unison with equally skinny legs, the kid covered the first ten feet without a sound. No guttural grunts. No animalistic growling. And, of course, on account of its lack of a pulse and respiration—no heavy breathing.

  Getting the Glock online to fire seemed to happen in slow motion. Tara was sticking her finger in the trigger guard and thrusting her hands out in front of her body at about the same time she heard her brother’s voice in her head reminding her the Glock’s safety was on the trigger. Which, at the moment, with sixty-some-odd pounds of hungry zombie barreling down on her, was one hell of a convenience.

  Jumping the gun, so to speak, Tara pressed the trigger before she had the sights fully aligned. The first round struck the undead boy’s clavicle, shattering it in several pieces and sending him off course by a few degrees.

  Still, the thing made no sound whatsoever.

  At the very moment Tara had been pressing the trigger, Dozer was already halfway across the open ground. Little rooster tails of damp earth erupted as the dog’s paws found better purchase and its pace quickened.

  Ignoring the furry missile vectoring in on the zombie, Tara sighted on a spot in space where she figured the zombie’s bobbing head would soon be and gave the trigger a second press.

  With the dog and undead kid a half-beat from one hell of a collision, the second round, tacking on a downward angle, entered the hollow cheek facing her and exploded out the other side, dragging in its wake a spreading cloud of congealed blood and shredded skin and shattered teeth. On account of the muzzle climb, Tara’s third shot plunged into the runner’s right eye socket, the kinetic energy snapping his head back and literally stopping him in his tracks.

  Coming in fast and from the left, every muscle in his eighty-pound low-to-the-ground frame gone rock-solid, Dozer launched at the incoming threat. While the dog’s aim was off, the impact with the undead kid was jarring. And though Dozer’s weight advantage further altered the zombie’s course, his bared teeth missed their mark. A good thing, considering nobody really knew Romero’s true effect on animals.

  Instead of clamping down on the arm sweeping past his muzzle, Dozer got a mouthful of the Dab Cat shirt. In the next second, as the equal and opposite reaction part of Newton’s Law kicked in, Dozer was sent spinning away from the true prize, the large swatch of tee-shirt clutched in his pointy teeth the only thing to show for his effort.

  The odd-looking pirouette that followed—the kid’s arms and head all jerking in one direction, entire torso torqueing in the other—struck Tara as a move she’d seen at an interpretive dance performance.

  As the zombie crashed to the ground, face-down, she bellowed, “Leave it,” and motioned for Dozer to back off.

  Still clutching the scrap of shirt between his teeth, Dozer backed away from the fallen ghoul. Once he reached the forest edge, he sat on his haunches and cocked his head.

  Tara took another tentative step toward the prone figure, aimed the pistol’s still-smoking barrel at the back of the zombie’s head, and pressed the trigger.

  Ears ringing, she plucked her keys from deep in her pocket and advanced to the door.

  The radio in her other pocket emitted a soft electronic tone. After a follow-on hiss of white noise, Rose said, “I heard that. And so did they. They’re coming your way.”

  No time to answer. Tara stuffed the key in the lock and drew back the first deadbolt. She was working on getting the other lock open when two things happened back to back. First, Dozer rushed over and put himself between her and the corner the kid zombie had just come around. Then, the zombies Rose had described—all of them waxen-skinned, their bloated bodies draped with torn and tattered clothing—doddered around the corner.

  Though the door wasn’t to a public restroom of an inner-city gas station, the ring of keys suddenly felt as if they had a cinder block hanging off them. The perceived weight was all in her mind, brought on by the sudden emergence of the trio of flesh-eaters.

  Fighting through the rising panic, she jammed the key in the second lock, rotated it counterclockwise, and shoved her way into the courtyard.

  Placing her hand in the breach where the growling canine could see it, she said, “Dozer, touch,” and got ready to close the door.

  Hindquarters appearing first, Dozer backed his way through the narrow opening, the ongoing low growl subsiding only when Tara had the door shut and both locks thrown.

  Chapter 20

  Lia had crabbed over the top of the fire engine’s ladder and crawled into the basket with Riker. After spending a minute or two poring over the ladder controls, Riker got the basket rising clear of the truck. With the ladder canted at a forty-five-degree angle, he started it telescoping out.


  Compressor noise similar to that made by the EarthRoamer sounded as he worked the controls. For some reason, his mind went to the people on the roof. He imagined the warden and her men wondering if the siren meant imminent rescue. He was certain they had been crestfallen when it ceased, that they were up there right now, craning and maybe crawling up the fence to the coiled razor wire and straining to see beyond the razor-wire topped parapet rising up at the roof’s edge.

  To be sure the coast was clear enough for him to take the next steps necessary to proceed down his own personal road to redemption, he scanned all points of the compass.

  Seeing Shorty and Benny on the feeder road and just seconds away from their close-range engagement with the small pack of zombies, and knowing their fate and Steve-O’s now lay firmly in their own hands, Riker started the ladder telescoping over the first layer of fencing, creeping ever so slowly toward the distant roofline.

  The ride was smooth as they crossed over the perimeter fence, the basket eventually rising over the building’s east wall without incident. Once there, with gunfire sounding at their backs, it took a little finessing of the controls on Riker’s part to get the basket past the parapet and to a spot above the coiled razor wire where the ladder’s under-mounted hoses and hydraulic piston were in no danger of becoming snagged.

  After locking the bucket in place, Riker let go of the controls, then turned and looked to the east. From the elevated perch, the second he set eyes on the guardhouse it was clear that his new friends were still standing and a whole bunch of zombies were not.

  Looking north, Riker saw another hundred or so zombies spread out on the pair of lots. While they were a clear and present danger to him, Lia, and the people they were hoping to bring down off the roof, how to deal with them would have to wait.

  Pleased that he had gotten them to within fifty feet of the heating and ventilation equipment where the survivors were hunkered down, Riker surveyed the flat rooftop. It was encircled by a foot-wide parapet. Mounted parallel atop the parapet was a two-foot-high barrier of coiled concertina razor wire. Running away diagonally from the inner parapet to where the outer parapet met a wall that rose up over what Riker guessed was the main building the zombies were spilling from was an unbroken length of twelve-foot-tall fence. Like all of the fence surrounding the prison, this was also topped with coiled razor wire. Which is why Riker brought the Jaws of Life up with him.