Riker's Apocalypse (Book 3): The Precipice

by Chesser, Shawn

  From the bucket, he could only see the warden and two of her men. They were crowding the inner parapet and looking groundward, through the curls of razor wire. The third guard was nowhere to be seen and didn’t emerge during the scant few seconds Riker and Lia spent observing them.

  Considering the wailing siren and mechanical sounds the turntable and ladder had made while Riker moved the basket into position, he was amazed they weren’t being greeted by expectant stares.

  “What’s going on? Lia asked.

  “I have no idea,” Riker conceded. “We’re going to have to dismount this thing to find out.” He draped the turnout coat over the razor wire to keep their clothing from getting snagged, then climbed down from the basket, crushing the jacket down under his Salomons.

  Once he made it onto the roof, Riker had Lia pass him the Jaws of Life. Setting the tool down, he extended a hand, saying: “Why’d you do it?”

  She leaped from the basket, easily clearing the razor wire. Landing cat-like on the roof, she said, “I did it because your little friend was giving me a case of the heebs.”

  “Shorty’s a good man.” Riker picked up the tool. “I’ve spent many hours in close proximity to him. If I thought he was a danger to Tara or Steve-O, I never would have invited him to Trinity House.”

  She looked a question at him.

  Setting off walking toward the run of fence bisecting the roof, Riker described the mansion in the foothills north of Santa Fe. Told her what he knew about the nuclear physicist who had once called it home.

  “So Tara and Rose are real?” Lia asked.

  “I’ll show you pictures of them when we get done here. We’ve got a house dog, too. Name’s Dozer.”

  This seemed to put her at ease.

  When they got to the fence, Lia was the first to call out to the others.

  The second the warden rose and faced them, even across the distance, Riker could tell by her expression that something awful had happened. As the warden opened her mouth to speak, he noticed someone had been busy fashioning a rope from tied-together jackets and emergency blankets. One end of the makeshift rope was tied to the mounting bracket of the van-sized air-conditioning unit, the other, he guessed, was dangling somewhere out of sight below the parapet.

  Hustling over to the roof’s edge, the majority of the mostly zombie-free yard was revealed to Riker in increments. The reason for the warden’s obvious concern became clear only when he got a good look at the ground immediately below where the jacket rope snaked over the parapet.

  Initially, seeing more brown grass and asphalt than zombies in orange seemed to Riker to be a good thing. Whereas the aerial recon had shown hundreds down below, now there were just under thirty, most of them clustered in the northeast corner where a single door stood wide open.

  Upon reaching the parapet, Riker cast his gaze at the ground thirty feet below. Prostrate on a patch of mud, surrounded by tufts of crushed grass and with a long length of the rope coiled about his body, was the badly sunburned guard. He was in pain, grunting and writhing and pounding the ground with both closed fists.

  Voice betraying the fear he must be feeling for his coworker, the Hispanic guard said, “Norm fucking volunteered to go down there and get the ladder set back up. God damn it, dude.” He began to cry. “I told him it wasn’t his fault.”

  That ladder’s staying where it is, Riker thought. The lower half of Norm’s left leg was jutting off at an unnatural angle. Just below the left knee, a long length of jagged bone protruded from a hole in the bloodied uniform pants.

  “You’re the one with the drone,” said the warden in a solemn voice. “I didn’t think you were coming back.” Her jaw took on a granite set. After a couple of seconds of silence, she added, “There’s no helping Norman now. You’re going to have to do it before they get to him.”

  Glad that she had been the one to recommend the dreaded “it,” Riker drew his Sig, threw off the safety, then gave it a quick press check to confirm a round was chambered.

  Making slow but steady progress, still maybe thirty feet from the fallen man, was a group of twenty or so dead things. They were becoming more vocal with each plodding step, grunts and moans and animal-like growls escaping their wide-open maws. A thought flashed through Riker’s mind telling him the gang in orange moving on the guard had likely not devolved as much as their appearance would suggest.

  Stepping forward, Lia said, “Shouldn’t we at least try to save him? Shoot the things before they get to him?”

  “Scoring headshots on that many moving targets with a pistol isn’t going to happen,” said the warden soberly. “At least not before one of them gets to him.”

  “And all it takes is one,” Riker stated.

  Lia said, “Then throw the gun down to him.”

  The warden shot her a look. Shaking her head, she said, “Too many variables. Plus, that would leave all of us defenseless.”

  The lady is all business, thought Riker as he stared down at the fallen man. “Hey there, Norm. My name is Lee. I’m going to need you to close your eyes. Can you do that for me, Norm?”

  The man’s eyes were wide open and flicking between the people peering down on him and the zombies drawing nearer.

  “You have to save me,” Norman wailed. “I have two kids. They’re with their sitter. Been there for a week now.”

  This new information sent a shiver up Riker’s spine. Trying not to let his own emotions show, he said, “Just close your eyes and try to picture their faces.”

  Instead, the will to live strong in the wiry man, Norman tried to sit up—pushing off the ground with both hands as he did so. The result: He let loose a guttural scream and his upper body slammed back to the ground.

  After the wave of agony contorting Norman’s face subsided, he stared skyward and professed his love for his young kids, calling them each by name.

  At this point Riker’s right arm was extended, the Romeo’s red dot superimposed over the bridge of the doomed man’s nose. As Riker transitioned his finger from the Sig’s frame to the trigger, a tremor rocked his hand.

  “Please close your eyes,” Lia cried.

  The zombies were almost upon the man.

  The warden took a step closer to the fence separating her from Riker. “Do it,” she implored. “Do it or give me your gun so I can.”

  After drawing a deep breath, Riker let it out real slow and pressed the trigger.

  There was a booming report and a tiny dirt geyser erupted a few inches left of Norman’s right ear.

  Norman opened his eyes. Locked them with Riker’s. Norman’s mouth was moving now, but no sound was coming out. Riker could have sworn the man was mouthing “Do it” when the Sig discharged a second time.

  The man’s face imploding had the opposite effect on Riker than had Raul’s, who was already mortally wounded and bleeding out on the pavers in front of Trinity House. The parolee was halfway to Hell at that point. Plus, the life-long criminal had already shot Benny and killed several others at Clines Corners.

  Raul had definitely had it coming: He had earned every round Riker had pumped into him.

  Norman, on the other hand, did not deserve this kind of death. In a way, Riker felt responsible. For if he had just spent a few more dollars and bought the best drone available, he would have been able to communicate his intentions to the warden. Let them know to sit tight and wait for him to return.

  Woulda, coulda … didn’t. No changing past history.

  The rotund African American guard said, “Norm beat himself up for letting go of the ladder. None of us could talk him out of going back down there to get it.”

  Even hearing that failed to fill the dark hole opening up in Riker’s heart. Peering through the fence, he fixed the warden with a tear-filled gaze. “I couldn’t tell you I was coming back.” He shook his head slowly, side to side. “It’s not that kind of drone.”

  “I know,” said the warden, “it’s not your fault. I take full responsibility. It’s my jail.
He was my guard. My fault Norm set the ladder up on the wrong side of the rooftop security fencing. I directed him to do it. Thought we might have a better chance of getting down from here near the front lot where the roof is a few feet closer to the ground. Without the ladder to get us over this”—she gestured to the razor-wire-topped fence surrounding the HVAC components—“we were right back to square one.”

  The warden turned away and drew her men in close. She draped an arm over each of their shoulders and bowed her head. After saying a few kind words for Norman and his kids, she deferred the prayer to the African American guard.

  After bowing her head for the duration of the prayer, Lia reached up and placed a hand on Riker’s shoulder. “Come on, Lee,” she said, “we need to get this done so we can get back to the others.”

  Nodding in agreement, Riker had the warden and her men stand behind the air conditioning unit, powered on the Jaws of Life, then went to work breaching the fence.

  Chapter 21

  Putting the Jaws of Life to work, Riker opened up a two-by-two-foot gap at the bottom of the fence. Working together, he and Lia received the shotgun and gear, put it all aside, then helped the warden and her men through the opening.

  Rising up off the roof, the warden offered her hand to Riker. “Josephine Littlewolf,” she said, then went on to introduce her guards, beginning with the Hispanic man. “This here is Roberto Flores. His longtime partner-in-crime on C Shift there is Luther Carr.” She paused. “Do not call him Luke. He hates it.”

  As if the deed he’d been forced to do had left his hands dirty, Riker wiped his palms on his pants legs. “If only we were all meeting under better circumstances,” he said, hooking a thumb at Amelia. “This is Lia. Don’t know her last name, we just met.” He nodded to the guards, then gripped the warden’s offered hand. “I’m Leland Riker.”

  “I know who you are,” Littlewolf said. She kept hold of his hand, her grip strong as she sized him up. “You’re much larger in person,” she added, releasing his hand. “And better looking in person than you are in your mugshot.”

  Lia took a step back. Fixing Riker with a hard stare, she said, “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

  Ignoring Lia’s question, Riker said to Littlewolf, “I called the D.A. like I was mandated. To see if I still needed to appear. I got his voice mail. Then, just for the heck of it, I tried 911. Got a recording.” His eyes widened. “It basically said we are on our own.”

  Nodding, Littlewolf said, “I got the same thing. We’ve been stuck here since the power went out for good. That was about day six. By then nobody was answering their phone. Makes me think landlines are down all across Santa Fe. Maybe even all of New Mexico. Our cell batteries died shortly thereafter.” She cast her gaze at Riker’s right leg and quirked an eyebrow.

  “I cut it off,” Riker admitted. “Santa Fe was on fire. Zombies had started to show up at our place. Figured the law and the courts had their hands full with more pressing matters. Besides,” he added, “I shot that man in self-defense. Totally justifiable.”

  As Flores and Carr started a slow nod, Littlewolf said, “I read your jacket. I also read up on the man you killed. He was a real piece of work. That Bonnie ride-or-die of his was no angel herself”—Bonnie? thought Riker—“you just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Crossed paths with the Devil. I would have cut off my ankle monitor, too.” Littlewolf unknotted the sleeve of her windbreaker and put it on.

  Carr said, “You did us all a favor.”

  Remembering he had friends waiting below, Riker fished his radio from his pocket and hailed Benny. After a short exchange, during which Riker learned that both lots were now crawling with dead things and that they were beginning to surround the fire engine, he signed off. Picking up where he had left off with Littlewolf, he said, “This Bonnie? You mean Crystal, right?”

  Littlewolf said, “Sorry. Crystal Ellison. Why do you care about her?”

  Riker shook his head. “I really don’t. Don’t even know her that well. It’s just that I agreed to this whole side trip to placate my sister and my buddy’s girlfriend. Mostly the latter.” Tone all business, he asked, “What happened to Crystal?”

  “She tried the old Stockholm Syndrome defense,” Littlewolf said. “At least through her court-appointed counsel, she did. All bullshit, though. She was a wackadoo. Finally admitted to a cellmate that she was just a thrill seeker who got in way too deep. You want my opinion, she was a yes man wrapped in the skin of a pretty little twentysomething white girl.”

  Riker said, “Was?”

  Shrugging his windbreaker on, Flores said, “She claimed she was pregnant. I think she just wanted a way to get out of general population. I was in the infirmary when she was processed in to have the necessary tests. Saw the little I got over on y’all smirk on her face. That’s where she was when the infection broke out inside and everything went to hell on us.”

  Nodding, Carr said, “We were severely understaffed at the time. Lots of people calling off. Everything would have worked out if Mary hadn’t gone all Florence Nightingale and insisted we open the place up before leaving ourselves.”

  Riker said, “Open the place up?”

  “The nurse on duty insisted we let the prisoners out of their cells. She argued that since we were leaving, it was the humane thing to do.” Carr shook his head. “Hell, we were out of food. Delivery had ceased three days prior. The in-processing and administrative areas already belonged to those things. I said no way we were going to contain them before remotely opening all the cell doors. If it was my decision, I would have left them all locked up.”

  Littlewolf fixed Carr and Flores with a serious look. “Enough,” she said. “We may have to go before a judge and answer for this one day. Clamp it.”

  Though the world they all knew was going to shit around them, it was clear to Riker that the warden still held sway over her men. Both guards immediately began policing up their meager belongings, Carr grabbing the pair of shotguns, Flores donning a pack containing a medical kit and their dead phones and radios.

  Riker had heard enough. He could now look both Tara and Rose in the eye and tell them in all honesty that he had done all he could for Crystal. Mission accomplished. Turning to Lia, he said, “I’m not a bad guy. Still, if you want to leave … my offer stands. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

  “Honestly, before I met up with you, Lee, I was just trying to get to the airport.”

  Riker said, “You weren’t foraging?”

  She shook her head.

  “What really happened?”

  “Like I said: It’s a long story.” She crossed her arms.

  “When you’re ready,” Riker said, “I’m all ears.”

  Interrupting, Flores said, “You don’t want to go to the airport anyway. Nothing has taken off or landed there since we’ve been up here. And I mean nothing. Last we heard, a quarantine facility was being set up to house all the incoming passengers.”

  Littlewolf nodded. Regarding Lia, she said, “Forget about the airport, young lady. I’d take Mr. Riker up on his offer. You could do much worse. Apparently, his losing-his-temper-problem has gotten him in touch with the courts a couple of times.” She zipped up her coat. Lifting her gaze to Lia, she went on, “But only enough of a problem to warrant him being ordered to attend a couple of anger management classes. He’s got an honorable discharge, which says a lot. His work history is spotty, but whose isn’t? Bottom line … he’s not the kind of guy we like to keep behind bars.”

  Carr handed a shotgun to Flores, then fixed Lia with a no-nonsense-stare. “I’ve seen what an IED can do to a man.” He tapped his head. “I’ve got a touch of post-concussion syndrome myself. Tinnitus, headaches … the whole nine yards.” Indicating Riker’s left leg, he added, “I didn’t leave a piece of myself in Afghanistan, though.”

  “Iraq,” Riker said. “Route Irish.” Suddenly he was feeling like a shit for thinking Carr was a reject of the Santa Fe police
when in all reality the man had also heeded the call to serve. They really were no different, he and Carr.

  Riker dug into his pockets and gave Carr the shotgun shells he’d gotten from Shorty. “That’s all I have to offer. Use them sparingly.”

  Giving half the shells to Flores, Carr went to work loading six of them into his pump gun.

  When Riker turned to face Lia, he saw that she had uncrossed her arms. And though the look of disgust was gone, he had a feeling she was suffering from information overload.

  “Mull it over,” he said. “Let me know when you’ve made a decision.” Hauling the Jaws of Life over to the basket, he looked groundward. What he saw was exponentially worse than what he was expecting: The dead that had been patrolling the prison yard had made their way through the building and, thanks to the newly destroyed doors, were now spread out across both lots. Riker guessed he was looking at two or three hundred of them.

  The idling fire engine was attracting the majority of them. Maybe a hundred or so were already three deep and crushing in on it from all sides.

  At the gate, a couple of dozen dead things, their alabaster fingers threaded through the chain-link, were pressing into the fence, causing it to flex and bow outward.

  The only cars sharing the lot with the fire engine had each attracted a small knot of zombies.

  Speaking into the radio, Riker said, “Benny, Shorty … do not kill those things at the gate.”

  Shorty fired back first: “You sure you don’t want to have to drive over a meat speed bump on the way out?”

  “Something like that,” Riker said, then went on to explain how he was going to get inside the truck and what he needed them to be doing in the meantime.