District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (5 page)

After attaching the F-650’s winch to the fallen snag, Daymon
moved out of the way and stood with Lev, Oliver, and the Kids while Jamie
reversed the big truck. There was a puff of gray exhaust that hung low to the
road as horsepower and torque combined to get the sixty-foot length of timber moving
off of the dented guardrails.

The Ford crouched down on its suspension and the tires
chirped as Jamie mashed the pedal.

Finally a ripple went through the timber and the staccato
crack of limbs shearing off filled the air. The old
equal and opposite
reaction came into play and the tree tore free from the rail and rolled a few
feet toward the assembled group.

One last toe stab to the pedal by Jamie jerked the cable
taut and brought the tree parallel with the guard rail on the river side of 39.

As soon as the tree had stopped moving, its bare branches
done quivering, Dregan’s courier, Cleo, pulled the 4Runner next to the F-650,
flashed a mostly toothless grin at Jamie, then motored off down 39 alone.

Seeing this, Daymon merely shrugged and sent Oliver, Wilson,
and Taryn off to help Jamie untangle the cable. Once the trio were out of
earshot, he turned to Lev and told him all he had just learned about their new
friend, Oliver, and how he planned to bring the newest member of the Eden group
up to speed.

When Daymon was done saying his piece, Lev shook his head then
looked away and watched Taryn help guide the winch cable back into its bumper-mounted
housing. Wilson was policing the shattered branches from the road. Meanwhile,
Oliver was leaning against the bowed-in guardrail, watching the others work.

Daymon craned his head to get Lev’s attention. “What?” he
said, palms up, exasperation evident by the tone of his voice. “Look at him.
You don’t think he needs a fire lit under him?”

Lev fixed his gaze on Daymon. “Not what I was thinking,” he
said. “It’s all coming together. The other day I was wondering why a guy who
humped hundreds of miles of countryside to get home didn’t look like he’d just
ridden a boat across the River Styx. What you just told me also explains the
night vision goggles and all of the spare batteries he was carrying. But what
you’ve got planned … it’s kind of harsh, don’t you think?”

Tucking a dread behind his ear, Daymon said, “Not more so
than the alternative. Raven had the last of the antiserum and it’s gone now. No
telling if Captain America …”

“Remember your
new leaf
?” Lev interrupted.

“Er, yeah,” Daymon said rather sheepishly. “As I was saying,
there’s no telling if Cade is going to return from his next excursion with more
of those vials. So … I think an evaluation by fire of our new weakest link
isn’t too harsh. Especially if it ends up saving lives down the road.”

Lev hung his head. “Wilson didn’t get that kind of
treatment. And he’s
finally
turned the corner.”

“That transformation has been months in the making.”

“Yeah,” Lev agreed.

The Raptor suddenly came to life, its 6.2-liter engine
rumbling low and steady.

“Well?” Daymon pressed. “It’s only every one of our lives at
stake. And, as always”—he paused and took a deep breath—“I’ll be the bad guy.”

“I guess,” Lev conceded. “Hell of a baptism, though.”

“I won’t let it get out of hand. Think of it as a blanket
party. That’s what you Army guys call that thing you do to initiate the noob
privates … right?”

Lev smiled conspiratorially. “Only in the movies.” Spinning
a finger in the air, he addressed the others. “We’re oscar mike. Thirty
seconds. Mount ‘em up.”

A minute later they were in fact
oscar mike
—military
speak meaning on the move—and the trees lining 39 were scrolling by, their
gnarled reflections creating a hypnotic effect as they juddered bottom-to-top
across the three vehicles’ bug-spattered windshields.

***

Twenty minutes after clearing the tree from the road, the
three pickups were parked side-by-side, Chevy on the left, Raptor in the
middle, and the big Ford F-650 taking up the exact spot on the right shoulder where
the overturned school bus used to reside. All three vehicles were facing the
asphalt confluence where 39 met 16, the state route connecting Bear River in
the south with Laketown and scenic Bear Lake near the Utah/Idaho border some
thirty miles north by west.

Daymon and Lev had purposefully maneuvered their trucks
close enough to the Raptor so that the entire group could chat without
broadcasting their intentions to the world on an open radio channel.

Daymon spoke up first. “Seeing as how our friends down south
haven’t seen hide nor hair of the horde since yesterday, I figure in order to
cover as much ground as possible before dark, splitting up is our best bet.”

Taryn and Wilson both nodded their approval.

Speaking from a much higher perch, Lev craned his head to
make eye contact with the others. “As long as the horde is still down south and
we keep the radios on … I don’t see why not.”

“Me and Oliver will skirt Woodruff on the east side, come
around counterclockwise, south to north. Lev, you and Jamie start at the rehab
place and work towards the center of town.”

“We’ll drive to the north edge of Woodruff and start moving
back this direction,” Taryn said. “Meet you all in the middle near the post
office.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Lev agreed.

Hand tightening on his AR-15’s grip, Oliver looked to
Daymon. “You sure of this?”

Before Daymon had a chance to answer, the long range
handheld CB belched static. A tick later Heidi was asking for Daymon.

“Daymon here. What’s up?”

Voice wavering, Oliver said, “The horde is coming. I
knew
it.”

Daymon looked sidelong at Oliver and adjusted the volume up
a notch.

“Change of plans here at the compound,” Heidi said. “Chances
are you’ll soon be hearing or seeing military aircraft in the vicinity.”

Glaring at Oliver, his index finger now held vertical to his
lips, Daymon said, “Cade’s ride is inbound
already
?”

“You got it,” she replied. “Could be that quiet black
helicopter or the noisy as hell tilt-rotor thingy. Cade didn’t say either way.
I didn’t ask. He just looked at his big soldier watch and said he’s being
picked up in the coming hours … whatever that means.”

“Shit,” Daymon exclaimed. “I was hoping to get something to
him before he left.” He slapped a palm on the steering wheel, causing Oliver to
visibly tense. He glanced to his right and saw Taryn in the driver’s seat in
the Raptor looking a question his way.

Daymon glanced at his wrist. Realizing he wasn’t wearing a
watch, he flicked his eyes to the clock on the instrument cluster. Then, after
a quick mental calculation, he thumbed the Talk key. “Have someone meet me at
the gate in ninety minutes.”

Trepidation creeping into her tone, Heidi said, “Will do.”

Daymon’s gaze landed on the trip computer where he saw the
outside temperature indicated in small digital numbers.
Fifty-eight degrees
… effin pineapple express.
Shaking his head, he dialed the volume down and
handed the CB to Oliver.

“What do you want me to do with this?”

Nodding toward the Raptor, Daymon said, “Have the Kids pass
it through to Lev.”

Taryn took the radio from Oliver without saying a word.

The CB continued its journey through the Raptor and Wilson
deposited it in Lev’s outstretched hand. Then, bowing his head to see past
Taryn, Wilson whistled to get Daymon’s attention. “What’s this extra special
item on your shopping list?” he asked.

Jaw taking on a granite set, Daymon locked eyes with Wilson.
“An amends,” he said through clenched teeth. Truth be told, acting on Duncan’s
advice, swallowing his pride and admitting he was wrong did feel a bit
liberating. However, the only child in him was kicking and screaming all the
way.

In the F-650, Lev passed the CB to Jamie then turned back to
address Wilson. “You think I ought to convince him we should stick together? We
can always come back out this way tomorrow.”

Wilson shook his head vehemently side-to-side causing the
boonie hat strap under his chin to swing like a pendulum. “I want no part of
this one. Both Cade and Duncan agreed to Daymon calling the shots on this
little excursion.”

Lev smiled. Thumbing the Motorola two-way he said, “We’re
good to go.” To his left the black Chevy made a slow sweeping turn onto 16.
Taryn moved out next, quickly bringing the race-tuned Raptor up to speed. Lev
pulled out last, taking up rear guard on the three-vehicle train.

As agreed upon ahead of time, Daymon took the first right at
Back In The Saddle Rehab and drove east on Center Street. Soon, the narrow
two-lane entered a shallow depression and the upper story and wood-shingled
roof of the rehab place disappeared from view. After a long steady climb out of
the dip, the farmhouses near to town gave way to rolling countryside rife with
green fields of chest-high alfalfa.

Standing out smack dab in the middle of one of the fields
were a pair of prefab homes. A pair of long gravel drives roughly a quarter of
a mile apart led up to identical cement parking pads fronting each house.

“Cade’s already been through those two,” Daymon said,
slowing and pointing out the white Xs scrawled on the doors. “He never
mentioned marking them up like that, though.”

Shrugging off the practice that seemed to make sense in a
natural disaster, but not so much in the zombie apocalypse, Daymon pinned the
accelerator to make up for lost time.

Soon the two-lane was flanked by trees and the red-brown
foothills of the Bear mountains were filling up the windshield.

“Five minutes gone,” Oliver noted. “Where are we going?”

“Don’t worry,” Daymon replied. “I’ve been here before.
Whether or not someone else has since is the make or break.”

Oliver fidgeted with the strap on his custom rifle. “When
were you there last?”

Letting up on the pedal and steering around a doddering
zombie, Daymon said, “Two or three weeks ago.”

“By yourself?”

“Yep.”

Oliver stared out over the shiny hood at the peaks where
residual pockets of snow high up on their flanks reflected the low-hanging sun.
“There’s no skiing up there,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“No shit.”

“What are you planning, then?”

Abruptly, Daymon pulled the Chevy to the right. He rattled
the transmission into Park and dragged the keys from the ignition. Looking at
Oliver, he said in a pleading voice, “Just humor me …
please
.”

Semiautomatic pistol in one hand, keys in the other, Daymon
stepped to the road and closed the door at his back.

Oliver actuated the power door locks and then looked on as
Daymon approached a weed-choked gate on the opposite side of the road. Interest
mounting, Oliver craned and watched the lanky man crouch on the shoulder for a
tick before rising and venturing into the knee-high grass growing up through
the soft dirt fronting the gate. After a few seconds spent standing before the
gate, Daymon pushed it inward and returned to the pickup with a substantial
length of chain in hand.

Back behind the wheel and ignoring the quizzical look on
Oliver’s face, Daymon pulled the pickup across the road and nosed it through
the yawning gate.

Taking the chain with him, Daymon hustled back to the gate
and secured it with the Schlage padlock—just as he’d left it weeks ago. After
looking both directions up and down the road, he returned to the truck
displaying the same sense of urgency as when he’d initially approached the
gate.

Not a second had passed between the time Daymon’s door
slammed shut and Oliver’s interrogation began. “What the hell are we doing here?”

“You’ll see,” Daymon answered cryptically as they barreled
north on a smooth, paved road flanked by nicely manicured trees and once
sculpted hedges clearly in need of a gardener’s attention.

They followed the winding drive in silence until a lone
zombie came into view on Oliver’s side of the truck. Upon hearing the engine
noise, the male first turn instantly snapped its head in their direction and
raised its pustule-riddled arms. Head bobbing and seemingly restrained by an
invisible hand, the thing marched in place, its bare feet churning the muddy
shoulder as it struggled mightily to set foot on the pavement.

“Was
that
here before?”

Daymon snorted. “He’s right where I left him. You could say
he’s on a
stake
out.”

“You made him your fuckin’ pet?”

“Early warning system is more like it. The simple fact that
he’s still standing likely means nobody’s driven this road since I did last.”

Oliver recoiled from his window as the wing mirror came into
contact with the zombie’s left hand. The solid
thud
was still resonating
through the door when the keen of fingernails raking sheet metal started up.
Disgusted, he asked, “What’d you do,
stake
its foot to the ground?”

“Not quite,” Daymon answered with a soft chuckle. “I
tethered the Z
to
a stake. Rope’s around his waist. Reaaaall tight. He isn’t
going anywhere without help.”

Warily eyeing the rotting cadaver’s shrinking reflection in
the side mirror, Oliver said, “You’re one sick individual.”

“Sick is in the mind of the beholder, my friend.”

After a short right-hand bend, a basketball standard and
garishly painted basketball court came into view. As the sports court slid by
on Daymon’s side, a three-story house filled up the entire windshield. It was
all wood and stone and framed by the naked boughs of a picket of mature trees
planted long ago. Where the drive spilled to a large circular parking pad, the
Bear Mountain Range was visible rising up behind the house.

Oliver whistled. “Looks like this McMansion missed the left
turn to Aspen.”

“Exactly,” Daymon said, smiling. “Reminds me of the houses
back in Jackson Hole. And that pad there”—he wheeled the truck right and pointed
left at a long rectangular area of poured concrete. It was newer, stark white,
and stood out from the rest—“is where I found the Winnebago me and Heidi call
home. Believe it or not, it was gassed up and ready to go.”

“Judging by that cow pasture gate at the road, you’d never
know the drive would lead to a house of this caliber.”

“Or any house for that matter,” Daymon proffered. “And I
want to keep it looking that way.” He steered the pickup in a big
counterclockwise loop and parked it on the herringbone pavers underneath the
covered entry adjacent to the front door. “Because one day when the effin dead
actually start dying off this will be mine and Heidi’s retirement home.”

Oliver walked his gaze over the home. It was constructed of
wood beams secured with rugged-looking rubbed-bronze iron bands. The roof and
gutters were black steel and contrasted nicely with the pale gray stonework
running up both sides of the huge wood and iron front door. Numerous gables
jutted up through the multi-faceted roof. The windows on each floor were
flanked by legitimate storm shutters. Constructed from what looked like
louvered steel and mounted to the home on sturdy-looking hinges, the black
slabs made the mini mansion look damn formidable from any angle.

After a pregnant pause, Oliver asked, “Whose place is it and
where are they? I never heard any of the usual rumors that hit the wire when
new money comes putting roots down around here. At least my mom didn’t mention
it. Which is not like her at all.”

“There was nobody home when I was here last,” Daymon said. “Looks
like it has been shut up since before the shit hit the fan. The junk mail in
the recycling bin inside was postmarked well before summer.”

“Maybe this was their winter retreat.”

“Couldn’t think of a better place to store the RV. It’s a
pretty easy drive to Yellowstone and Grand Teton from here. Both are very
beautiful year round. Plus, there’s a trailer and four new snowmobiles in the
garage.”

Oliver craned around. “Where
is
the garage?”

“That’s the best part of the place. It’s out back and full
to the brim with
toys
. Hell, I felt bad leaving the spare 4Runner parked
in there with all those big dollar rides.” Daymon killed the motor. Grabbing
his AR from the backseat, he asked, “Coming or staying?”

Oliver hesitated.

“Because we’ve got to get back to the compound before hooking
up with the others, It’ll just be a quick in and out. No sightseeing.”

“I’d just slow you down,” Oliver replied, looking over his
shoulder. “What makes you sure there’s nobody already squatting inside?”

“I have a few tricks up my sleeve,” Daymon said. “Learned my
lesson the hard way in Hannah waking up with a Glock stuck in my face.”

“Cade?”

Daymon nodded. “I was slippin’ … won’t happen again.”

Grinning, Oliver said, “And that’s why you tea-bagged him at
Mom’s place.”

“Bingo,” Daymon said. “And that’s why we’re here. Be right
back. Don’t forget to lock ‘er up.”

Oliver nodded. In fact, the door locks were thunking home
before Daymon’s boot hit the front stairs. Oliver looked on from the truck as
the former BLM firefighter ran his hand around the door jamb and fiddled with
the lock and brass handle. After the cursory inspection, Daymon flashed a
thumbs-up and set off for the corner of the house closest to the RV parking pad,
black AR carbine held at a low ready.

And a poor tea-bagging at that,
thought Oliver,
walking his gaze in a full three-sixty around the truck.
He didn’t even drop
his trousers.

Two miles west of the McMansion, Lev and Jamie were already exiting
Back In The Saddle Rehab emptyhanded. The pair of first turns that had been
locked inside and wandering freely about the downstairs area were sprawled out
on the cement ramp where Jamie had felled them. Just as she’d been conditioned
to do since the dead things started walking, the old knock and listen had
proven effective.

Once inside, however, everything of use in treating an
injury or instrumental to someone on the road to recovery from one had been
stripped from the place. Downstairs, papers with pictures of models performing
therapeutic exercises littered the floor. They’d found the floor-to-ceiling
cabinets all thrown open, the plastic bins once containing the exercise
handouts on the floor, some of them in shards as if they had been kicked and
then stomped on. Staggered boot prints of varying sizes and with different
tread patterns marked up the scattered papers with a reddish-brown mud.

Only office furniture, file cabinets, and the festering
corpses of a young mother and her little one occupied the second floor.

In short, humans had picked the place as clean as the birds
had the bones of the dozens of corpses sprawled in silent repose in the parking
lot and sidewalk alongside the ransacked business.

From the rehab place’s elevated back entry, Jamie surveyed
the gravel parking lot. “Well that was a bust,” she said, throwing the empty
day pack over a shoulder.

Standing beside the F-650, Lev cocked his head and looked to
his left. A tick later, engine sounds could be heard riding the wind somewhere well
north of them.

“Whoever tore up the place,” he said, his attention still on
the familiar engine growl approaching from the north, “there must have been a whole
bunch of ‘em.”

“Half a dozen, at least,” Jamie said. “I counted that many
unique shoe prints in there.” She nudged the corpse at her feet. “What’s really
bugging me is how these two got shut inside after the breathers left.”

“Let’s hope they aren’t evolving,” Lev said, brow cocked. “They
learn to turn handles and work keys in locks, we are toast.”

Jamie fixed Lev with a concerned look.

“Cade and Duncan believe they go through some of the motions
they used to. Just not consciously. And that’s a theory I can get behind.”

Jamie shuddered at the thought of a pistol-wielding corpse.
Or worse, a handful of them thwarting a door by a means other than brute force
and entering the Eden compound employing stealth and cunning. “You’re right. We’d
be done so quick if they did evolve.”

“I bet the owners of those boots left the door cracked when
they left,” Lev theorized. “Then the two that were in there barged in and
accidently bumped it closed behind them.”

Cocking her head toward the engine noise and recognizing it
as the throaty growl of the Kids’ Raptor, Jamie asked, “You think maybe Dregan
and the Bear River folks are responsible for this?”

Lev shook his head. “They agreed to leave the north to us.
Besides, those tire tracks in the lot run deep and were definitely made by
something much larger than anything of theirs we’ve seen so far. The wheelbase looks
to be a good deal wider than a military Hummer.”

“Wider than the Graysons’ Ford, too,” she observed, glancing
away from the chevron-patterned indentations and settling her gaze on the mud-spattered
black pickup parked beside the tire tracks in question.

Lev’s face tightened. “Yep,” he said, exhaling. “Could be a
threat to Eden if they get lucky and follow us home like Dregan did Cade.”

“Speaking in Cade’s defense,” Jamie said, “Dregan followed
his tire tracks in the snow to Eden.”

“Whatever the case,” Lev said agreeably. “We still better
keep our eyes peeled. And it would be wise for us to stop every once in a
while, kill the engines, and listen. The motor stuffed under the hood of the
thing that made these tracks is probably diesel and makes a hell of a racket.
And that’ll carry real well considering this autumn quiet.”

After scanning the area one last time from the elevated perch
for any rotters backing the F-650 into the lot may have attracted, the pair closed
the door and made their way to the vehicle, heads on a swivel and weapons
sweeping the lot.