Dead Team Alpha: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (23 page)

“Then they
think they know where the activation code is,” Cole says, pointing at the forgotten piece of charcoal in Stanford’s hand. “Get to drawing, bad cocksucker. Let’s hammer out this plan and fucking march.”

***

The lack of movement with the trolleys troubles the two winch jocks as they lean against the uphill line, waiting for a signal to start their jobs.

“Looks like you guys get a break today!”
another jock shouts from the downhill line, busy watching the gears and cables move as he lowers a trolley filled with Reclamation Crew Three. “I’d die for a fucking break!”

The trolley filled with reclaims
rolls ever downward then hits a dip and is lost from sight. It’s normal since the Turnpike is not a perfect slope, but a highway of ups downs, twists and turns. Using a series of pulleys, cables, and counter weights, the trolley system keeps supplies coming and workers going up and down the mountain all day long.

Unless one side isn’t working and the other runs into a problem.

The downhill jock stares at the cable in front of him, frowning at the way it starts to slacken.

“Need some help, Jeff?” an uphill jock yells over to him. “Maybe the trolley got stuck on a rock. Better go fix that before the weights get fucked and the cable warps.”

“Ain’t no rocks,” Jeff says. “I rode the line this morning. Turnpike is clear.”

The cable slacks even more. Then the screams begin. The jocks all look at each other.

“Go get a sentry,” one of the uphill jocks says. “Someone get a sentry!”

However,
none of them do. Instead, they turn and start running up the Turnpike, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the Z mega-herd that has just crested the hill. When the herd spots the fleeing meals, their groans and hisses turn into roars and growls.

“Oh, fuck, man!” Jeff yells as he runs. “I left RC Three down there!”

“Fuck them, man!” another jock yells. “They’re on their own!”

***

Far off to the side of the Turnpike, having had to take a side trail, Carlyle stops briefly to take a couple lungfuls of air. But the precious air quickly leaves his chest as he gasps at what he sees a half mile back down on the Turnpike.

Men and women are screaming as they sit trapped in a trolley, their progress blocked by the hundreds and hundreds of Zs that swarm around the cage. It had been a vehicle just seconds before, but was now no better than a crab trap on land.

The Zs reach through the bars, their rotten skin sloughing off as they try to squeeze arms and hands between irons meant to keep Zs out. Unfortunately, as always with human beings, panic does not make for intelligence. Fear does not help with rational thought.

Someone, some fool that believes reality doesn’t apply to
him, unlatches the trolley door and tries to make a run for it. He gets exactly four feet before being taken down by the herd, his screams echoing up the ridge to Carlyle.

The Runner doesn’t wait around to watch what happens, having seen this ending too many times in his life. He looks
away, begins running up the trail, leaving the screams, and cries for help far below and behind him.

***

“No! NO!” Jeff the downhill jock shouts, waving his arms at the trolley that’s coming towards him and the other two jocks. “Go back! GO BACK!”

The RC in the trolley all stare at him
as if he’s crazy. Far ahead up the mountain, a set of jocks keep the cables moving, lowering the trolley downhill.

“Get out!” Jeff yells. “Just jump!”

“What the hell is wrong with you, boy?” a man asks, as the trolley gets closer.

“Zs!” Jeff screams. “A HERD OF Zs!”

The trolley passengers watch him for a minute, and then notice the other jocks aren’t even bothering to look over at them. Realization hits and they start to panic, each rushing for the cage door. In their hurry, people are jammed against the iron bars, cracking their heads, getting hands wedged between, crying in pain and surprise.

“Jesus,” Jeff says as he keeps going, passing the trolley.

The cage door is finally unlatched and people spill out onto the dirt covered pavement. But many are left inside, clutching broken limbs or unconscious. Blood starts to drip, drip, drip off the side of the cage, mixing with the dust and rocks on the ground, as the trolley continues its descent, the jocks above unaware of the horrors coming their way.

***

It’s never a choice, and Carlyle knows it. As a Runner, your job is to get through your run and pass on your message. You don’t stop to help others; you don’t try to be a hero; you don’t waste time. In a society where electronic communication no longer exists, the Runners are the lifeline between the Stronghold and the world below.

As
more and more screams reach his ears, no longer as far down the mountain as before, Carlyle keeps telling himself that if he doesn’t ignore the wails and pleas, then the Stronghold will fall. And everything will be lost.

He tells himself this. But it doesn’t help ease his own pain; the pain that fills his heart and soul as friends and neighbors die below him.

***

The Code Monkeys walk slowly up the hill, trailing the herd. When they get to the first
trolley, only a couple of them pause to inspect the cage, making sure there are no lucky survivors. A man reaches out from between the bars, hoping to find help against the Zs that are busy eating his intestines, but the Code Monkeys do not acknowledge him. They wait patiently until he breathes his last breath. After a few moments, the body starts to cool and the Zs lose interest. They fumble about to find their way out of the cage, then fall to the ground, stagger back up, and continue on their journey uphill.

Sightless, but ever observant, the Code Monkeys follow behind, making sure every last Z continues their march towards the Stronghold.

***

With DTB on one side and DTA on the other, the Teams cautiously march their way up Sheridan Boulevard, seeing the interchange with I-76 a mile or so ahead of them. Their nerves are fried, having already encountered six Monkeys just in the last hour of marching. There weren’t any for the first couple of hours, then the attacks started one by one.

Diaz, taking point for DTA, risks a glance down at his leg, frowning at the stain on his uniform. The wound is superficial, at least he thinks it is, but it pisses him off it’s even there. They had just passed the old burned down amusement park by Lake Rhoda when two Monkeys came at them. The fuckers had been hiding by the front entrance, just waiting in the shadows of the ticket windows.

The Teams took them down without a problem, but not before one got a good slice in on Diaz.
The pain isn’t the issue as much as the embarrassment of taking a hit from someone called a fucking Monkey. That just irks him.

Across the road, Shep has point for DTB. Personal well-being is the furthest from his mind. He could give two shits about himself and all he’s worried about is the fact he has a sweet little lady named Toni waiting for him back at the Stronghold.
And there’s a herd of Zs shambling towards her.

One of the older veterans of the teams, Shep is getting real tired of the fighting game and looks forward to getting out and just being a citizen. He’d never say this to his Mates, but he has a feeling some have caught on even though he keeps his private life private. He pictures Toni’s short, black hair, her deep set brown eyes, the way that one dress flits around her thighs in the breeze when the air is warm enough for her to wear it. His mouth twitches up in a sly smile as he thinks about what’s under that dress and how much he wants to just curl up with her body against his and leave the guns and killing behind.

Right behind Shep is Stanford and he’s not thinking of himself or of the Stronghold. All of his thoughts are directed on the logistics of making the ascent up the mountain. In his head, he works through the sketches he and Alastair had made on the floor of the Bell Tower room. They tried to recreate as much of the trolley system as they could from memory. All of the pulleys, the counter weights, the different gears, the way the cables connect to each cage. Step by step, they laid it out on that floor, making sure they didn’t miss anything.

However,
his gut is telling him they did miss something. Unfortunately, his gut is not sharing with his head, so he marches on with a feeling of dread that the solution Val came up with could mean the death of them all.

Back across the road, Val keeps sneaking looks at DTB. The Mates are moving in perfect unison, all covering the areas they need to, even more watchful for Monkey attacks.
Yet her attention isn’t on the Team, but on the Runner that marches in the center of the Team. Benji is the wild card, in her opinion. He’s a Runner, not Mate, and when all Hell breaks loose, she wonders if he’ll have the fortitude to step up or will he panic. Even if he doesn’t step up, she at least hopes he doesn’t panic, and just stays out of the way.

Panic is contagious
and infuriating. If he freaks out, it will be a problem for both Teams. As if sensing her thoughts, he looks over and gives her a thumbs up, then flips her off. The last gesture eases her mind a bit. No one with that kind of bitchiness is probably going to panic right off.

The Teams continue their march, coming to the I-76 overpass that runs across Sheridan Boulevard. Diaz and Shep
each hold up their fists, stopping the Teams about thirty yards from the first onramp.

“We cool, Shep?” Stanford asks.

“No,” Shep says and looks over at Diaz.

The DTA Mate senses it too and he trains his carbine up at the overpass. There’s no sign of movement, from Z or Monkey, but Diaz could give ten shits about what he doesn’t see. It’s what he does see that worries him. All along the railing of the overpass are cars. Not unusual pre-Z, but very unusual post-Z. He knows they shouldn’t be there
in such a perfect line.

Diaz looks over his shoulder and points to Tiny D. Shep looks over his shoulder and points to the twins. The Mates move forward, step by step, eyes up, watching the cars.

“Fuck,” Diaz whispers, nodding towards the cars, watching a shadow play on the interior ceiling of a long unused hatchback. “We have movement.”

The rest of the
Mates hang back, letting the point people do their jobs. But some feeling makes the hair on Anna Lee’s neck stand on end. She pivots and drops to a knee, her focus on the street behind them. Cole taps her shoulder and she just shakes her head. He follows the direction she is looking, towards an old restaurant with only two walls still standing. A huge oak tree towers above the partial building, its branches tangled in useless power lines.

Up by the overpass, Diaz and Shep split their people off, one taking the off ramp, the other taking the onramp, both cautiously moving forward with their eyes locked on the vehicles above them. They stop halfway along the ramps and cut up the slight hills to the interstate. From both their vantage
points, they can see movement inside the cars, but they instantly recognize it for what it is. Zs. Not humans, not Monkeys, but Zs.

They catch each
other’s eyes and nod, seeing that the threat isn’t what they thought. No need to engage trapped Zs. But their training tells them something about the situation. Someone put the Zs in the cars. They aren’t strapped into seats, they aren’t nearly as dried out and desiccated as most Zs are that got caught in their precious automobiles as their eternal tombs.

Diaz turns and looks down at the rest of the Teams below and gives a high whistle. Instantly they all crouch low and take a knee, their M-4s sweeping the area, looking for the direction the attack will come from. The Mates on the ramps double time it back to their Teams and hunker down, ears open, eyes wide, ready.

Anna Lee is focusing so hard on the building that she misses the movement in the tree; her mind thinking it’s the wind blowing the branches that are thick with fresh green leaves. When the first Monkey drops, it takes her a second to readjust her focus. That second is all the blind crazy needs as he rushes towards Anna Lee, his arm raised, the razor sharp edge of the machete above his head glinting in the sunlight.

But big blade or not, Anna Lee has an M-4 carbine in her hands. She squeezes the trigger twice, putting two rounds in his chest, then squeezes again and puts one between his eyes as he starts to fall backwards, just in case he’s wearing body armor as some of them have.

“TREES!” she yells. “FUCKING MONKEYS IN THE FUCKING TREES!”

Firs and oaks, pines and
maples that were just decorative saplings a century ago when Z-Day hit, are now mature trees, reaching high into the air. And from the branches of the trees that line the road, Monkey after Monkey, crazy after crazy, leap down at the Teams, their hands gripping weapons of various types, all designed for death.

The Teams open fire, turning one way and then next, cutting down the Monkeys as the crazies run towards them. Round after round hit bodies, and Monkey after
Monkey, falls to the road. Most stay down, their chests and heads pouring blood, but many get back up, the old Kevlar under their shirts keeping them alive. Well, alive until they get a slug to the forehead or empty eye socket.