Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (39 page)

Jamie went to her knees. “Are you okay, Logan?” she asked,
cradling his head with both hands.

Looking her straight in the face, he said, “My brother comes
onto the scene and all of a sudden I can’t do anything right. I forget the
radios. Ed and his family leaves, and now this ... I’ve always been in his
shadow.”

“It’s alright to look up to him, but in my opinion you
should stop living in his shadow.”

He said nothing.

Trying to stay out of it, Gus walked away humming a ditty
only he knew the words to.

Jamie offered Logan a hand up and said, “We’re only people
until we’re one of those
things
. Then all this bullshit minutiae doesn’t
mean a thing.”

“I know, I was the only one counting, but that was strike
three right there.” He made a face. Looked at the others one at a time, shook
his head and said, “I don’t think I deserve another chance.”

Gus couldn’t hold his tongue. He said, “I was counting. And
that was strike four if you take into account Little Miss Premature on the
siren over there.”

Logan made no reply. Tried to wipe the mud from his hat but
only smudged it further. Red-faced, he gave up and slapped the bowler back on,
dirt and all.

Seeing this, Gus said, “Forget about the door. I’ll take
care of it.” He made a shooing motion and went on, “I want you two to get
behind the cruiser. And tell Jordan to keep her head down.”

With a little help from Jamie, Logan limped back to the SUV,
rubbing his backside.

Gus stood at an oblique angle ten feet right of the door,
snugged the AR tight to his shoulder, and aimed for the one-inch strip between
the locks and frame. He took a calming breath and squeezed off four consecutive
shots, a second or two between each.

While the sharp reports were still echoing around the
quarry, Gus approached the door and finished the job with one swift kick. He
took a quick peek inside and noticed the interior door was shut. He looked over
his shoulder at Logan and said, “Step right up. It’s redemption time.”

Logan paused for a beat, put down his carbine and drew his
Glock. Pulled the slide checking for brass.

“Just fling it open and get your butt out here.”

“Pronto,” added Jamie, “I wouldn’t want to lose you.”

After limping up the steps, Logan hesitated once again and
cast a look at Jamie that said:
I got this
. Brandishing the Glock
one-handed, tucked close to his body, he crabbed past the desk and grasped the
brushed-nickel knob. Once again he hesitated. Then for reasons known only to
him, tapped the 9mm against the hollow door—an action that received an instant
response. The first impact rattled the door, jiggling the knob in his grip. The
monster had no chance at a second attempt because Logan flung the door open and
backpedaled out of harm’s way, a mass of black flies buzzing after him.

The creature stumbled through the inner door and caromed
around the office, moving the flimsy desk a couple of feet and sending the
antiquated IBM PC to the floor in the process. Then another rotter—female,
elderly, and grossly overweight— emerged from the inner sanctum trailing
several feet of its own greasy intestines.

The two abominations pin-balled off each other, causing
complete devastation to the small room before finally finding their way through
the open door and into the sunlight.

The male rotter, also elderly—early sixties, Logan guessed—and
rail-thin with ashen skin and a scraggly white beard, locked on to him like a
heat-seeking missile.
If these two were a couple in life
, he thought
bringing his Glock on line,
then the age-old adage, opposites attract, must
have been at play
.

Stumbling down the steps and over the pitted ground,
coveralls black with dried blood, the male zombie covered a handful of feet
before meeting a pair of 9mm Parabellums head on. The first projectile,
travelling at a blistering 1,200 feet per second, struck the monster on the
sharp ridge of its lower jawbone. The bullet’s kinetic energy snapped the
creature’s head back like a Pez dispenser, discharging a geyser of flecked bone
and tooth through the pulpy chasm where its sunken cheek used to be.
Strike
five
, Logan thought pessimistically even before the effect of his second
shot had become evident.

A thousandth of a second later, the latter half of Logan’s
double-tap found its mark, entering directly under the rotter’s mangled chin
and exiting diametrically opposite behind an airburst of skull, hair, and
gelatinous gray matter. Relief washed over him as the thing fell in a heap in
the red mud near his feet.

No sooner had the remains of the rotter’s brains dribbled
from its skull than a flurry of gunshots sounded from Logan’s right flank.

Wobbly and unsteady, like a drunken sailor on liberty, the
second rotter had trundled down the stairs on the heels of the first,
inexplicably ignored Logan, and trudged directly towards Jamie and Gus and into
the hail of hot lead fired from their carbines.

Trying to avoid an imminent tsunami, Logan sprang back as
the plus-sized flesh-eater, its face a bloody red mess, fell headfirst into a
mud puddle.

But Logan’s reaction time had been lacking and he was
deluged with enough displaced dirty water to wet him from crotch to sternum.

Crouched low and moving sideways, Gus stepped quietly over
the leaking bodies. Then, craning his head to see through the doorway, he swept
the business end of his rifle inside, cutting the room off by degrees.
Nothing
.
Still, he waited and listened and watched the darkened doorway for a full
minute, and when nothing else emerged, his law enforcement training kicked in
and he called out, “Clear.”

Schriever AFB

“So what do you think the compound will be like?” Cade asked
Raven as he tossed an empty backpack on the bunk and worked at undoing the top
enclosures.

She bit her lower lip. Looked at the floor for a second,
searching for an answer. Finally she said, “I don’t know,” and looked up and
locked eyes with him.

“No idea at all?”

“The word
compound
kinda makes me think of a castle.
Maybe there will be a wall and a moat.” She added a couple of tee shirts and a
pair of khaki cotton pants her mom had scrounged up somewhere to the pile of
clothes going with them and added, “Sasha thinks we’ll be able to explore city
ruins on the way. Says it’s going to be fun ... like their trip from Denver.
She says there will be a ton of zombies but she’s not scared at all. I don’t
really believe her though.”

Cade rolled up a black tee shirt, stuffed it in a zippered
side pocket, and said, “Are
you
scared?”

“Kind of.”

“What do you think the countryside near the compound is
going to look like?” he said as he stuffed the rest of the clothes in the main
body of the pack.

“I kinda think it’ll look a lot like where Robin Hood lives
... the Starwood Forest.”

“Sherwood Forest,” said Cade, correcting her. “But you’re
close. There’s a lot of trees and a creek and a grassy clearing with a landing
strip. I’ve seen it mostly from above ... when I was riding in a helicopter
with some people you’re going to get to meet.”

“You think we can build a fort or a tree house in the
forest?”

“The compound is more fort than castle,” he said. “But,
yeah. I’ll help you build a tree house. With a garage for your bike, how’s that
sound?” Then he went over most of the details he knew from Duncan about the
compound, leaving out the part about it being buried underground.
No telling
how she’d take that kind of news
, he thought. So he decided to leave her
free of worry for now and wait until they actually arrived there and then see
how she took to the place and its subterranean nature.

“So we’ll all be safe from the zombies there?”

“Yes sweetie. And we will be with people whom we can trust.”
Then, one at a time, he made sure each Glock pistol had a full mag and a round
in the chamber. The 17—minus the suppressor—was holstered in the drop-down on
his left thigh. The compact 19, however, went under his arm in the quick-draw
rig. “Good to go,” he said aloud, out of habit more so than to reassure Raven.

“Yes we are,” she replied. She rose and crossed the room,
Max by her side; as she opened the door she let out a little squeal. “Yeahhh
... Mom’s back.”

Marveling at the girl’s uncanny ability to hear what he
could not, Cade grabbed his crutches, rose creakily, and followed her outside.

The Cushman ground to a halt just as he reached the bottom
step. He hobbled over and, after Brook silenced the engine, said, “We’re ready
when you are.” Behind him he could hear a ticking as Raven pushed her mountain
bike from around the side of their billet. Then the swish of knobby tires
through damp grass.

“Pinch me,” Brook said, beaming from ear to ear. “I can’t
believe we’re actually leaving this fortress of boredom and deceit.”

Nodding his head in semi-agreement, Cade placed the lone
backpack behind the passenger seat next to hers and loped around to the
driver’s side. With most of his weight supported on his right foot, he slid his
crutches into the back seat and sat with the walking boot sticking out
slightly. “Hey hon,” he said, once he was situated.

Brook swiveled around to face him. “Yes,” she answered.

“You’re going to have to do the heavy lifting for a couple
of days. Starting with the Bird’s bike.”

“And the rifles?” she asked as she placed the lightweight
bike on the back where, on a normal golf cart, a couple of baskets would be
corralling a pair of overstuffed bags full of golf clubs.

“Already in the truck.”

“The Whipper guy didn’t lay claim to it while you were gone
... did he?”

“No. He’s not so bad. He’s just wound pretty tight. Like we
all are these days.” He went silent for a beat, then added, “We had a talk and
we’re on the same page now.”

Wondering if she could coax the rest of that story from him
one day, she secured the bike with a couple of lengths of paracord. She
whistled and hollered, “Come on Max.”

Just as Raven was taking her seat next to Brook, the
Australian Shepherd bounded from the grass, his coat covered with dew. After a
couple of quick convulsions which sprayed everyone with a fine mist, he snaked
under Raven’s legs and claimed a spot between mom and daughter.

“Home, James,” said Cade in his best British accent.

Pigtails flailing like medieval weapons, Raven whipped her
head around and blurted, “Really?”

“No sweetie,” answered Brook as she started the Cushman.
“Dad was using a figure of speech. I’ll explain it to you once we’re on the
move. Reminds me,” she added, speaking over her shoulder. “Am I driving that
monstrosity part of the way?”

“To start. We’ll take turns. Maybe the Wilson kid can take
the wheel a little.”

“Over my dead body,” replied Brook, recalling the
terror-filled moments during which their U-Haul convoy had gotten gridlocked in
the gated community southwest of Colorado Springs.

The statement elicited an impromptu meeting of the eyes
between father and daughter. Cade made a face and shrugged. To which Raven
bugged out her eyes, then turned forward and sat rigid in her seat just as the
cart started moving.

***

After transiting the base via the smooth asphalt drives past
the community resource center, the medical clinic and the mess hall, Brook
snugged the Cushman to the curb behind an identical model Cushman and silenced
the engine. “You or me?”

“Me,” answered Raven, who was already half out of the
vehicle.

Brook watched her bound up the steps and knock on the door—a
furtive flurry of tiny knuckles playing out like bongos on the hollow-core
door. After a few moments it opened a crack and Raven disappeared inside.

“
Password please
,” followed by a curt, “
Enter
,”
was all Brook could think of as she watched the interaction play out. Then,
like a limo driver delivering a diplomat to a high level meeting, she sat back
and prepared for the long wait; her experience was that anyone under twenty seemed
to think
quick
applied only to powdered flavorings for milk or the speed
at which paint dries. She turned to face Cade and asked, “Since I’m doing the
driving, is there anything I should know about this new truck?”

“It’s a beast ... that’s for sure. You know our Sequoia?”

“Hated driving that thing,” Brook answered without
hesitation.

Fully expecting the sentiment he’d heard her utter a hundred
times, he cracked a smile and said, “We can’t expect to run an undead gauntlet
in a VW.”

“No ... really?” she said smartly.

“I know it’s bigger than my old truck, but I think you’ll
warm to it.”

“I don’t have to like it to drive it,” was her answer to
that. Then, parroting something Cade always preached, she said, “I’ll adapt.”

“You’ve done great so far,” he said, giving her shoulder a
soft squeeze.

She looked at her watch.
Seven minutes
.

The door opened and Sasha emerged carrying a bulging,
utilitarian-looking, tan canvas bag over her shoulder.

Max’s ears perked and he sat up as Raven emerged with a
wooden baseball bat clutched in one hand and a tan leather handbag with some
kind of logo dotting nearly every square inch in the other. Everything was
placed in back of the other cart and Raven returned and took her place next to
Max, who greeted her with a gentle butting of his head, a move that was
reciprocated with a good scratching behind the ears.

“What’s keeping the other two?”

“Taryn is inside on her bed hiding under the covers,”
answered Raven. “Wilson said she had
cold feet
. That mean she’s sick or
something?”