Dead Again (9 page)

“If we’re going to do this,
lets
do it right,” Peterson said. “It has safety, and sounds like a good supply of food, water and medicine. My men could use it, too—I’ve get some wounded. It makes the most sense. That’s where were going.”

“Who made you leader, Commander?” Sheriff Jones said.

Peterson just stared back, calmly. “You want our help?”

Jones looked back, clearly defeated.

“Then from now on you’ll take orders from me. And so will your men.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Peterson’s team, the cops and ten armed civilians all huddled around Peterson as he laid out the plan.

“We’re going to use that 18 wheeler,” Peterson turned and pointed to a eighteen wheel truck. The cabin was painted with red and yellow flames, and a shiny metal skull was mounted on its hood. “How is it on gas?”

“It’s my truck sir,” came a voice. It was a civilian, in his mid-forties, wearing a cowboy hat and holding an 8 gauge shotgun--an elephant killer. He stepped forward, “At your service. It’s running on fumes.”

“How much distance do you think she’s got left?” inquired Peterson.

“Not much, soldier,” the cowboy said as he scratched his 5 o’clock shadow. “She can give up at any time.”

“Well,” Peterson said, “all we need is for your truck to make it about 500 feet. Running on fumes will have to do. I will you need you to drive it, and a volunteer to ride shotgun,” Peterson’s voice was confident and direct. “It’s going to be risky.”

 
“What’s the idea, Commander?” Trooper Willis demanded.

Peterson shot Willis a hard glance. He didn’t like being questioned.

“The truck is going to ram right through the front gate, and, like a wrecking ball, will hammer a passageway right through those things.”

“Good idea,” the trucker said with some eagerness in his voice.

“Good, Cowboy,” Peterson liked this guy. He looked up at the rest of the armed civilians. “And who will ride shotgun?”

Another civilian stepped forward. He looked like a member of a motorcycle gang. He had a thick beard and mustache, long hair, and was wearing sunglasses. He also sported a bandana and a weather-beaten leather biker jacket. Cradled in his arms was a mean looking machine gun.

“Call me Hatchet,” he said in a cool, unruffled voice. “I’m the man.”

“Yes you are,” Peterson said with approval.

Looking down, Peterson used his finger to outline an invisible map on the cement.

“Cowboy, you’ll need to back up to the other end of the lot, right here. Then I want you to make one loop, gain speed, and then break right through the gate,” Peterson looked at Cowboy and then continued. “Keep driving right over those bastards. You got to bore us a pathway right through those walking bags of flesh, understand?”

“Understood,” Cowboy said, sounding self-assured.

Peterson turned to Sheriff Jones, “As soon as the truck is through, my team is going to move outside and blast until we establish a perimeter, at least thirty feet wide, for the civilians to bust through. Your men need to usher the civilians outside the gate, and providing suppressing fire for us. Got it?”

Sheriff Jones nodded back. He looked nervous.

“Once we make it through, I want half of the armed men up front leading the way and the other half behind, making sure our rear is covered and that no civilians get left behind. My team will hold the flanks. This way, we have firepower in all directions, and everyone is accounted for.”

“Got it,” Sheriff Jones said with jumpy voice.

“And then what, Commander?”
 
Trooper Willis clearly wasn’t used to being ordered around. It seemed to piss him off. “We just walk off into the sunset?”

“If you stay here, trooper,
your
are all dead for sure.”

Willis gritted his teeth, and grudgingly look away, having nothing to say to that.

Peterson then surveyed the group of armed civilians. They were rag-tag, ranging from an all-star-American teenager with a six shot pistol, to an old, frail man with a rifle from world war II.

“How many of these civilians are armed?” he asked.

Sheriff Jones glanced at them, “Ten.”

“Have them fill your ranks, Sheriff. We need the fire power.”

“You men ready for this?” Sheriff Jones addressed the armed civilians.

Some didn’t respond. Others nodded back hesitantly.

“Follow my orders, hold the line, and remain side by side.”

Peterson continued, “We’re going to move as a single unit to the hospital. Put the weaker civilians in the middle. You know the way, Sheriff, so I want you up front. We take the main streets, whatever is least populated, easiest to navigate, and widest. I don’t want us getting stuck in a narrow space. Got it?”

Sheriff Jones nodded back.

“DOES EVERYONE HERE GOT IT!?” Armstrong yelled fiercely.

“YES, SIR!” came the chorus from the shadow team. A trained response which, in comparison, made law enforcement and the civilians seem like amateurs, who just mumbled and nodded their heads yes.

Peterson was concerned. Everybody had to do their jobs if this was going to work, and he was asking a lot from armed civilians and local cops. However, he also knew that there wasn’t any other option. These people had to move somewhere, and quick. On the outside, Peterson’s expression relayed belief in those around him. Inwardly, he calculated that this scheme had, at best, a fifty percent chance of working. If it didn’t, they were all going to be devoured alive. He was sacrificing everything—himself, his team, and the entire damn mission to save a group of civilians.

How the hell did I get into this?

“All right, round up all the civilians, and hand me that megaphone. I want to talk to them.”

Sheriff Jones and his men broke into action, rounding up the crowd, herding them from all over the sprawling parking lot, and bringing them close to Peterson.

As the crowd thickened around him, Peterson stood up on a crate, raised the megaphone, and faced them. He saw the fear on their faces, the nervousness, but also some hope.

“We’re going to get you out of here,” Peterson announced. “We are all going to safety, to the hospital. It’s only a mile from here. As we leave, my men will surround you, and you will be safe within our confines. We must move together as one. No one leave our perimeter, for any reason.

“Once we reach the hospital, we will secure it, and then you will be safe, and have shelter, food, and medicine. It will not be easy getting there, but we’re all in this together. Be strong. Follow instructions carefully. I repeat: do not stray from our perimeter. Our firepower will surround you, but stay close, hold together as a pack. And no matter what happens, keep moving, as fast as you can. We can only move as fast as the weakest link here. If you see someone too sick, or too slow, carry them. I want us moving in at least a trot.

“These gates are about to bust open. As soon as I give the signal, and not before, I want you to hurry through them in a fast and organized manner. Get ready.”

Peterson stepped down, and handed off the megaphone.

*

Peterson and his team took positions a safe distance on either side of the gate.

“Nice job, Commander,” Angelo whispered, as he took his position by Peterson’s side.

Sharon stood across from him, determination in her eyes. She was the consummate professional, and just looking at her relaxed Peterson. Beside her stood Cash, a devilish grin on his face, his eyes wide and frenzied. He looked like he was enjoying this.

The engine of the truck turned over and revved hard. Black smoke hissed from its exhaust pipe. Peterson made eye contact with Cowboy in the driver seat, his eyes wide and edgy.

Peterson raised his hand like a flag. “NOW!” Peterson yelled, and brought down his hand, chopping the air.

The truck’s engine roared, and its body kicked. Cowboy started his loop around the lot. Gradually, he gained more and more speed. Everybody was holding their breath.

The truck gained some decent speed. Its wheels screeched as it turned the final bend and came fully around, aiming at the gate like a guided torpedo. The engine roared as the truck gained further speed. Twenty feet, ten feet, zero.

The fence gates buckled like paper under the force of the truck. Upon impact, like a bomb had been detonated, the gates literally ripped and flew into the air.
 
The crowd of zombies which were standing against the gate had no chance. Peterson was surprised as he watched the infected rebound off the truck, somersault and twist through the air, sailing twenty feet, and slapping the cement.
 

The infected which didn’t fly away were simply driven over, flattened under the weight of the ten ton truck. There was a revolting sound of crunching and popping bones.

The truck tore a damn bloody path right through the thick crowd of zombies, successfully opening a decent size corridor.

Peterson didn’t waste a moment. “GO!” he shouted.

 
Armstrong was the first outside. He fired his flamethrower to the right, and sprayed a long blaze across a line of zombies which stood about twenty feet away. They ruptured into a fiery wall of human flesh.

The rest of the team fell into line, each member laying down fire with fatal accuracy.

With the help of the truck, they had already established good clearance. Peterson was firing like mad, trying to widen the thick perimeter and establish even more breathing room. All around him, Sharon, Cash and the others did the same, while Armstrong continued setting groups of the infected ablaze. The path wouldn’t stay open forever, and the civilians would have to move quickly. Peterson noticed that the zombies on the outskirts, missed by the truck, began to form lines and close in. It seemed to Peterson as if they were unifying, gaining strength before striking.

Peterson spun and gave a hand signal to the waiting cops.

At that moment, all the civilians came running out, into the open perimeter,
 
surrounded by Peterson’s team, which stood there, providing suppressing fire in every direction as person after person ran out of the parking lot.

Within minutes, all the civilians were out, and Sheriff Jones’ men and the armed civilians broke into action. Some of them moved to the front line, while the others stayed back and held the rear. The action was going according to plan, and Peterson was hit with a rush of adrenaline that felt a lot like satisfaction.
 

Sheriff Jones, firing, approached Peterson at the front of the group.

“Time to move our asses,” Peterson said out of the side of his mouth.

They began to jog at a good pace, and Sheriff Jones pointed which way to go. Everybody moved as one—the shadow team, cops, troopers and civilians—following the pathway which was created by the truck, the flame thrower, and the blazing rifles.

Running down the street, gaining ground, it began to open up. Now the zombies perimeter was at least fifty yards, and the group began to really pick up speed. The cracking of rifles decreased, as now less suppressing fire was needed.

The truck had run out of gas not far from the exit point, and Cowboy and Hatchet jumped out and ran, zigzagging their way over to the group. They had victorious smiles on their faces, clearly basking in victory.

“Good job, boys,” Peterson said, as they got close.

Because the civilians had been encamped in that parking lot for so long, Peterson realized, all the zombies in town must have been drawn to that location, and had clustered there. That was a good thing. As they trotted down a street, hardly any were out in the open now. They had made it out of that darn parking lot unscathed. Success.

But there was still a ways to go.

Peterson turned left, following Jones onto Main Street, and he and his men fired at an occasional roving zombie. Peterson kept checking over his shoulder to make sure the civilians were moving. They were.