Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle (11 page)

A lone zombie was trying desperately to climb the rungs, but with its lack of coordination, was having a rough time doing it. Rip raised his .45 to end the abysmal creature. He paused, taking in the sight of the lone zombie. The undead ghoul must have felt his presence, because it turned to greet him, so to speak.

The sunk-in face, the sallow skin, and the copious amount of blood dripping from its face masked the identity of the once-proud and kind person that it had been. Rip flinched, lowering the .45 for just a moment, trying to disprove who he saw.

It didn’t work.

It was Jake, or the man that used to be Jake.

Rip choked back a cry, wanting to scream at the top of his lungs. He wanted to scream the way that he’d done the first day that he’d woken up in the apocalypse, one of confusion and anger simultaneously. Rip couldn’t bring himself to do it, though. All he did was grit his teeth until they felt like they were going to snap and raised the .45.

“Goddammit, Jake. I’m sorry.”

And pulled the trigger.

Jake ceased to be one of the undead and fell in a heap on the floor, his brains and shattered cranial bones spraying the wall and ladder behind him.

Rip holstered his .45 as the rest of Tombstone Squad stepped inside. Witch was leading the way, stepping over the busted table and broken glass.

“Area’s secure. We didn’t see any survivors. I’m sorry.”

Rip looked back at the twice-dead corpse of Jake, and then back to Witch.

“Yeah, me either,” Rip said. “Hacker, get back on the horn with Knight Base, tell ’em we’re on the way back. No survivors.”

“Gotcha, sarge,” Hacker answered, a little downtrodden. He stepped outside and contacted Knight Base. Rip could hear the radio key up as he did, Knight Base affirming their transmission.

Rip stepped away from Jake’s body. As much as he wanted to give him a proper burial, there was no time and no daylight. A ceremony would never be done, and Jake deserved some sort of recognition. Rip said a silent thank you to Jake and started to leave the cabin.

Then he heard another moan, coming from Casey’s loft.

Rip smashed his eyes shut as hard as he could, trying his damnedest to un-hear what he had just heard. Poor Casey was a zombie, and he didn’t have it in him to put an end to the sixteen-year-old girl’s suffering. Seabass heard the moan as well; he stepped beside Rip and faced towards the sound.

“Take care of that, would you, Seabass? I don’t have it in me to kill another friend tonight.”

“Yeah, I got this, sergeant,” Seabass answered, pulling his sidearm—a 1911 .45 like Rip’s— out.

Seabass stepped over Jake’s body and onto the first rung of the ladder. He slowly climbed to the top of the loft, the moaning repeating itself again as he reached the top. He peered into the loft, looking for the creature that had made the sound.

A hand grabbed him, gently.

“Please, help me…”

Seabass nearly pissed himself.

“Sergeant! We’ve got a live one up here!”

CHAPTER 15

Seabass calmed himself. He swiftly and impulsively pawed at his side for his handgun. The instinct to fire his .45 was a hard habit to break, especially when startled, but he stayed his hand. Not everyone that he encountered meant to do him harm, but decisive action and mechanical reflexes were what kept him alive so far.

“It’s okay, we’re here to help. What happened here?”

The young girl rose from her lying position, desperately trying to get herself up, but Seabass put a reassuring hand on her shoulder and gently pushed her back down.

“Who is it? Casey?” Rip asked, stepping onto the ladder beside Seabass.

“A young girl, maybe fifteen or so,” Seabass answered, looking to Rip. “You know her?”

“Yeah, her father was who helped me out once I… well, once I arrived here. He was a good man.”

Casey rose up again. “
Was
? What happened to him?”

Rip stepped up the ladder and looked her in the eyes. “You know what we had to do, Casey. I’m sorry, but it’s better this way.”

Casey opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. Instead, she slumped back down onto the hard floor of the loft, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she passed out. Seabass grabbed her wrist and felt for a pulse.

“She’s passed out, probably from the shock of everything. Her pulse is thready, so we shouldn’t waste any time getting her out of here. She looks a little dehydrated, too. God knows how long she was in here before we came along.”

Rip nodded and grabbed Casey by her shoulders as Seabass grabbed her under her knees. They carried her down from the loft, gently placing her on the floor. Seabass grabbed a candle off the mantle behind him, lighting it with an old Zippo. The lighter smelled of gasoline, useable in a Zippo when lighter fluid was not available. Rip figured the lighter fluid business had gone out quite some time ago. The candle emitted a soft, orange glow, giving them a little more light to work with.

Hacker and Witch came back inside, Hacker clipping the radio back onto his vest as he walked into the room.

“Who the hell is she?” Hacker asked, nodding to Casey.

“She’s the daughter of the man we came here to rescue. She seems to be the only one left alive.”

“Well, she’s not the only one here. We got more Zulus; I can’t really tell how far off they are, but we are going to have more company, and soon. I guess all the gunfire attracted them.”

“We’ve got to get her out of here. We can take turns carrying her; a fireman’s carry will work. One person carries while the other three provide cover,” Rip said.

“I can get her. You three just keep me covered,” Seabass ordered and pulled Casey up.

Rip grabbed his rifle. “Let’s not dick around then; let’s roll.”

Hacker and Witch nodded. They both swiftly headed out the door, raising their M4s as they did. Hacker may have been a video-game junkie in his heyday, but he moved and communicated like a seasoned soldier. Rip began to wonder if all of the pogues that he’d given a hard time about playing
Call of Duty
had made it this far. Killing zombies on the game was something that his soldiers enjoyed doing back in the day, even competing against one another to see how long they would last against the undead hordes.
I wonder if those fuckers are still around, still trying to outdo one another at zombie killing,
Rip thought.

Seabass hefted Casey over his shoulder. She moaned slightly but did not awaken. She hung limply over Seabass’ shoulder. The big man seemed oblivious the extra weight, moving as if she weren't there. With his rifle slung across his back, he drew his .45 and headed out the door. Rip followed, keeping a keen eye on their teenage tagalong. Casey seemed to be a little worse for wear, but very much treatable and alive. Rip hadn’t seen her mother, Tina. Hacker and Witch made a quick sweep of the outside of the cabin and signaled Rip. It was highly unlikely that Tina was alive, so they opted not to do a thorough search of the dozens of bodies outside, especially at night.

“You got this, Seabass?” Hacker asked.

“Yeah, let’s go,” Seabass answered.

Rip led the way, flanked on either side by Hacker and Witch, with Seabass following closely behind. The tactical approach they attempted to use on the way to the cabin was completely out the window now. The best way for them to get back to the horses and the fuel was to beat feet as fast as they could. As far as tactical went, the four men were more than capable of a hasty and successful retreat without it.

Rip kept his rifle at low ready, the stock pressing against his shoulder as he moved along. He was tense, a feeling not unfamiliar to him, but one he didn’t like. He felt out of control, as if someone else was in charge of his life. He liked being the one making the decisions but hated the consequences, something that wouldn’t matter much nowadays. He could take a life and not have to deal with the mind-altering stress that came with it. The questions of
did I do the right thing?
and
could this have been handled differently?
were a thing of the past. No paperwork to fill out, no explanation needed; just kill or be killed.

He could handle that; hell, he could even learn to like it.

Part of his mind wanted to keep his humanity, the part of him that realized he still had a son out there somewhere. The father in him wanted to stay in control, to be compassionate, and to care for the ones he loved, but that list was getting shorter by the day. The quick decision to take care of and bring Casey back began to feel more and more like he was just doing his job, taking orders, or just accomplishing a mission. There was a little sympathy in the fact that the girl’s father had taken care of him out of some need to help others, not looking to get anything out of the deal. The only reason he was still living was because Jake Woods cared enough to take care of him. But to what end? What kind of person was he going to become? The thought that he was devolving back into soldier mode scared the hell out of him. The post-apocalyptic world was just like Afghanistan, but with no consequences or repercussions. That by itself was a hard pill to swallow, but if he could take care of himself, then maybe the compassion would be a by-product of doing what needed to be done.

It was time to get down to the nasty business of killing, and he definitely had the instinct for it. He only hoped the killer instinct within him did not fail at an inopportune time.

The kill switch was on, and God only knew if it could be turned off.

After trudging through the forest for another ten minutes, the road was getting closer. Seabass had opted to continue carrying Casey back to the horses. He knew the haste in which they needed to get back to Fort Drum, switching carrying duties back and forth would only slow them down unnecessarily, and they didn’t need that now. They were still blessed with an ample amount of moonlight and the pale light led their way through the dense forest.

As Rip led the group onward, he kept his eyes darting back and forth. Movement was easy to spot when you were waiting on a target or looking for something to cross your path, but when you were moving yourself, it was a bit more difficult. Any movement right now would mean someone—or some
thing
—that didn’t have any business being there.

A horse neighing ahead of him proved that.

At first, he didn’t think much of it; the three horses they rode on were still, hopefully, tied to the billboard, their fuel waiting with them. Rip slowed his pursuit ahead, raising his left hand in a fist to signal the other three men. All four of them stopped and listened.

Rip couldn’t see much; twenty yards of wooded area were ahead of him before ending at the road, but he could sense something was off. He heard the low mumble of voices in the distance, signaling that there was indeed something amiss. Rip squinted, his eyes forward, trying to figure out who was ahead of them. He dropped down to one knee and motioned Witch, Hacker, and Seabass over to him. All three men converged on him, moving as stealthily as a shadow in the dark. They kneeled with him.

“What’s up, sarge?” Hacker whispered.

“People up ahead; not sure who they are, or how many. Sounds like several different voices, but at least two for sure.”

“What’s the plan of attack?” Witch asked.

Seabass frowned in the darkness. “Attack? How do we know it isn’t friendlies on the way back from Watertown?”

“Friendlies wouldn’t risk being heard. They wouldn’t have investigated the horses, either. From the way it sounds, our scout team got their asses handed to them earlier; they’d be hauling ass back to Drum right now, not fuckin’ stopping to take a look,” Rip answered.

“Riders?” Witch asked.

“That’s what I’m guessing. Clay said those fuckers jumped ’em when the undead did. He didn’t go into detail, but I’d say it’s a good possibility these fuckers are part of it.”

“What if they’re not Riders? What if they really are friendlies?” Hacker put forth.

Rip stood up and put the stock of his M4 into his shoulder. “One way to find out. Cover me. If the shit hits the fan, get Casey back to Colonel Patterson and make sure she’s taken care of.”

Hacker put a hand on Rip’s shoulder, stopping him before he could move forward. “How will we know if you want us to fire at them?”

Rip chuckled. “I’ll fucking tell you to shoot, Hacker. This isn’t
Call of Duty,
son; we don’t need fuckin’ code words. A simple ‘fire’ will suffice, I’m sure. Just keep a bead on ’em and listen for me.”

Hacker opened his mouth to speak, but Rip was already stalking forward, rifle up and ready. The three silhouettes ahead of him moved among themselves, talking to one another. It was difficult for Rip to make out their exact movements, or their weapons, but he assumed they had the latter, and he wouldn’t take a chance being shot by these assholes. There was no way they were going to get the jump on him, not a chance in hell.

Hacker and Witch stood and flanked the targets to their left. Rip was moving at a forty-five degree angle to their right, trying to get another approach on the intruders. If they could get the jump on their would-be attackers, then they could take them before they even knew they were there.

“Seabass, stay here and chill. We’ll give the all clear once we’ve secured these assholes. Keep that girl safe, brother,” Witch directed. Seabass nodded in the near darkness and slowly laid Casey down on the cool, damp ground. She thankfully did not make a sound, still unconscious.

Witch moved ahead of Hacker, directing him to stay a few paces back. If the bullets did start to fly, they needed to be in a position as not to be hit by crossfire. The two men slipped through the woods to the edge of the road. In the moonlight, they could see the hardtop about fifteen feet ahead, and the three men just beyond that. Hacker and Witch held up just off the road, hiding behind a copse of trees.

The section of road they occupied was relatively straight, turning slightly to the right after the billboard. Rip was already slowly pursuing the voices, walking up the road at the opposite end from Witch and Hacker. Moving quickly but tactically, he got to within twenty feet before the three men milling about with their fuel and horses became suspicious of his presence.

“Shut up, dipshit! I heard something!” a low voice hissed.

Through the dark silhouettes, Rip could see the other two men reaching for things. The long, black objects could have been baseball bats or rifles, but Rip wasn’t going to give them the chance to use whatever they might be.

“Don’t fucking move asshole!” Rip bellowed. He could hear the men moving quickly, facing him. He kept his M4 on what he believed to be the lead man. Footsteps moved again, this time towards him.

“I said not to fucking move, jackass! I’ve got thirty rounds with your name on ’em if you take another step!” Rip repeated his warning with more force in his voice. No time for fucking around. Time to identify the men as friend or foe.

And God help them if they were foe.

“Who are you? You should know that it’s a bad fucking idea to mess with me and my boys here. You fuckers forget who owns the roads around here?” the low voice asked.

Rip had an inkling who the men might be. He moved his finger from the trigger guard onto the trigger itself.

“Enlighten me, asshole.”

The voice chuckled. “You must be one stupid motherfucker to pull this kind of shit on a group of Riders. How about we just call up the Horseman to—”

Rip opened fire.

Nine shots later, the three men lay dead, each one receiving a Mozambique for their troubles—two in the chest and one in the head. Rip was a hell of a shot, but pulling off the trio impressed even him. He lowered his rifle, the cordite still hanging in the air. Footsteps moved toward him as Hacker and Witch came out from their respective hides along the road. Both men had their rifles raised in anticipation. Once they eyed Rip, they both lowered their M4s.

Rip slung his rifle across his back. “All clear, boys. Get Seabass up here and let’s get back to Drum. Hacker, get on the radio to Knight Base and tell them to expect us in an hour or two.”

Hacker slung his rifle as well, and then whistled loudly into the dark forest. “All clear, Seabass. Let’s ride!” Hacker turned his attention to Rip. “That’s some real John Wayne shit there, sarge. I guess you’re not one for negotiations, are you?”