Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 9): Frayed (31 page)

The second serving of sausage and hash lasted a little
longer than the first, and Cleo was finishing his second snifter of brandy and
completely sated and a little fuzzy of head when Helen began asking him
questions. She poured him another two fingers of the amber liquor, set the
bottle down close to their guest, and looked across the table at Ray. “Now I
realize Alexander was going to call Cleo any minute, but I just couldn’t see
letting him sit out there any longer.”

“There’s not a single bone in my body that cares if that boy
goes back out there in the cold or not,” Ray said, laying the
bad cop
on
real heavy. “Furthermore”—he dropped his fork on his plate, rose from his chair
and shot a serious look at Cleo—“I don’t care if Dregan offered this man free
propane all winter, every winter, for life—from where I come from—neighbors
do
not
spy on neighbors.”

“Give him a break,” Helen said. “Alexander Dregan is a
convincing fellow.” She refilled Cleo’s snifter. “The poor boy was nearly
freezing to death as it was.”

Ray harumphed loudly. “I’m going to bed,” he said, pushing
his chair against the table. Muttering under his breath, he shuffled towards
the stairs, leaving Helen and Cleo and the brandy alone in the dining room.
Halfway up the stairs he heard Helen’s voice. So he paused on the stairs just
in time to hear the
good cop
say: “So what is our Ukrainian American
neighbor to the south up to anyway?”

***

In his new hide overlooking State Route 39, Gregory Dregan
was sweating under a pair of long johns, two fleece layers, and the Arc’teryx jacket
and snow pants worth more than two weeks’ pay in the old world. Having set up
the three-man four-season Vaude backpacking tent without an undue amount of
cursing or breaking a pole or having a zipper malfunction, he was busy
unrolling his sleeping bag when a mournful baying rolled up from the deep woods
across the road. The hunt ensued for a couple of minutes, and by the time the rowdy
pack had moved off to the east, his heart rate was back to normal and the
little hide was all set up.
Tent, check. Thermarest pad, check. Sleeping
bag, check.
All that’s missing
, he thought ruefully,
is a roaring
fire and a warm lady.
Sadly enough, he’d almost forgotten what it was like
to be with the latter. Truth be told, though he was loathe to admit it, he hadn’t
so much as held hands with, let alone bedded a woman, since before the fall.
That silly little thing known as survival coupled with his strict moral
upbringing had seen to that.

He tugged the handheld radio from his inside pocket. Powered
it on and switched the channel to match Cleo’s. He thumbed the
Talk
button. “In place,” he said. Just the two words. No greeting or other
formalities. This was strictly business, so none were necessary.

After hearing the soft click meaning message received, he
selected the previous channel and hailed his dad. A few seconds of dead air
ensued and then the elder Dregan answered. “Dregan here.”

“I’m in place,” Gregory said. He released the
Talk
button to a burst of squelch, probably caused by the double canopy tree cover.

“Have you seen anyone since the shooting?”

“Not a soul. Heard some coyotes, though.”

“Watch your back, son,” Dregan said. “Call me if anything
changes. Out.”

“Good night, Dad.” Gregory left the unit on, with the volume
turned low. He had more batteries. Besides, the white noise made him feel less alone.

Huntsville

“What the hell was that?” Cade exclaimed, shooting an incredulous
stare at Duncan.

“Sounded to me like our friend Daymon just lost his temper
and done went and got himself shot.”

Cade shook his head. “There was no return fire from our side.
I explicitly told Lev to let loose if any of our own started taking direct
fire.”

The two-way vibrated. “Scratch one Honda passenger side
door,” Wilson said. “Hurry the hell up and do whatever you’re going to do.
We’re effin freezing down here.”

“What’s up with Daymon?” Cade asked.

“Oh, Daymon. He’s on the verge of going postal. You know how
he gets when he’s feeling trapped.”

“Do I ever,” Cade answered back. He released the
Talk
button to consult his Suunto.
Twenty-five to eight
. The sky was
darkening by the minute, and if the previous night between sunset and moonrise was
any kind of barometer, this one, considering the layer of thick black clouds riding
high in the sky, should prove to be just as inky black, if not darker—if that
was at all possible. He flashed Duncan a tight smile.

Duncan shrugged, brows creasing.

Still holding down the radio’s
Talk
button, Cade
said, “Piss him off a little, would you?”

“What do you mean?” shot Wilson.

“Just get him cussing like that again. Have Lev return any
fire ... same as before. High and non-lethal. Six rounds only. Two seconds
between each.”

“Lev’s listening in,” Wilson said. “He just flashed me … er,
I mean, you, a thumbs-up.”

Cade took the lock gun from a pocket. Letting his carbine
dangle from its center-point sling, he scaled the back steps one at a time. He
felt a tug on his jacket sleeve. Craning around, he saw Duncan point at his
shotgun, then at the door.

Cade shook his head. Put a vertical finger to his lips.
“Quiet,” he said. “We use Daymon as the diversion and if need be, nonlethal
means once we’re inside.”

“Why?” Duncan whispered.

“You’ll see,” Cade replied. He went to work on the doorknob
and had the inset lock defeated in seconds. The newly installed deadbolt a few
inches above the knob was another story altogether. It was a real heavy-duty
item, like it had come off of a door serving one of the businesses in the town
below. Gun sticking into the lock’s guts, he paused until the dreadlocked
former firefighter with the vocabulary of a pissed-off Marine started braying
about something or other. The words, though unintelligible, were dripping with
venom and spoken at full volume. Hearing the distraction ensue, Cade bit his
lip and manipulated the pick deep into the lock’s inner workings. A tick after
the cursing began, the lock clicked open with a fairly audible report. “We’re
moving on the house now via the back door,” Cade said into the Motorola even as
he was stowing the pick tool and leaning a muscled shoulder into said door.

Someone had oiled the hinges recently, so it started the
journey inward silently. However, something with substantial weight to it was
hanging off the opposite side of the door and bumped and clanked against the
lower panel.

Cade held his breath and listened hard while the noise subsided.
Nothing
. Nobody was shooting or moving around upstairs—yet.

“Let’s go,” Duncan said, his voice suddenly gone hoarse.

After determining that there was nothing dead awaiting them
and that the item hanging off the inside of the door was just an overstuffed
daypack in desert tan—probably the shooter’s go-bag—Cade was on the move. The
stench of standing water in the sink hit his nose as he passed it. Three
strides later, he was at the west end of the kitchen, a mountain of dirty
dishes and empty tin cans behind him.

Shaking his head at the poor display of sanitation, Duncan closed
the door and then maintained a yard’s separation between him and Cade, the
stubby pump gun held at a low ready, its gaping muzzle pointed at the floor a
foot-and-a-half in front of his boots.

Cade held his hand up, fingers curled into a fist, and took
a knee by the stairway leading up and away off his right shoulder.

The gunfire resumed from upstairs. Like before, the pattern
was the same, two quick shots followed by a pause of three or four seconds.
Only this time, between the first and second volley, three things were added to
the mix. There was the tinkling of shell casings bouncing off of the broken
glass from the shot-out dormer windows. There was also a harsh crunching and grating
sound of glass being ground into the veranda floor, presumably under the solo
shooter’s feet. Lastly, there was another volley of curse words, only this time
clear as day and filtering down from upstairs. He heard only one man’s voice.
And that man was pissed off that the
dumbasses
wouldn’t just leave him
alone. “Pick another town,” he said loud enough to be heard throughout the
house and most assuredly blocks away.

Suddenly silencing the man, bullets were incoming. The first
smacked glass in a window somewhere.

Cade counted in his head.

One-one-thousand.

He said to Duncan: “Stay here.” Which Duncan correctly took
to mean
watch our six
.

Two-one-thousand.

He started up the wood stairs, knees bent to keep his center
of gravity low, while being careful to step only where he figured the treads
were nailed to the stringer below. Less chance of a groan or squeak giving him
away. By the time he was four steps committed, any noise rising from the
stairwell didn’t matter, because the man half a house length west of where Cade
was had stopped cursing and instead was letting his carbine do the talking for
him.

Not one to let a golden opportunity slip away, Cade pulled
an olive drab metal cylinder from his parka pocket. Eschewing Hollywood’s
glamorized way of pulling the pin, he spared his teeth and wiggled it free the
old-fashioned way—with his thumb and forefinger. The spoon flew one direction
and, like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar delivered his famous skyhook, Cade lobbed the
grenade over the railing, ducked and covered.

Seeing this, and knowing all it took from a grenade going
off to ruin one’s day was the tiniest bit of shrapnel, Duncan followed suit.
However, as time slowed and he was privy to a preview of his own mortality, he shot
a quick glance at Cade turning toward him and read the former Delta operator’s
lips:
Flashbang away
. Never before had those two words put him so at
ease. Moving with a speed he didn’t think was in him, Duncan set the pump gun
on the floor and simultaneously squeezed his eyes shut to preserve night
vision, opened his mouth wide, and clamped both hands over his ears. Last thing
he wanted to be doing after the thing detonated was charging up the stairs,
momentarily blinded, and sporting a hangover-like concussion.

The one-pound device hit the upstairs floor with a solid
kerchunk
,
followed a half-beat later by a
whoompf!

Like a freight train was passing outside, the windows in the
three dormers rattled in their tracks, a seconds-long symphony of shaking glass
and counterbalancing sash weights banging around inside their pockets.

The gunfire ceased in accordance with the breath-robbing
concussion. With the acrid reek of accelerant hitting his noise, Cade keyed the
radio and hissed, “Cease fire.” In one fluid movement, he mounted the final
three stairs, leaned forward, and was aiming around the bannister, his right
elbow braced on the dusty wood floor. “Freeze,” he bellowed. “Drop your
weapon.”

Because of a large queen-sized bed taking up the center of
what he guessed to be the master suite, all Cade could see of the man was his
profile from the waist up. He had his hands in the air and a stocking cap on
his head. It was loose and drooping to one side, the fuzzy ball on top bringing
it down to ear level. Judging by the way the man’s stomach was rounded out and
wavy in places, Cade guessed either he was in dire need of an abs workout
regimen or was wearing one of those overly stuffed down vests. Considering the
temperature inside the house was hovering somewhere in the mid to high
thirties, if he had to wager on one or the other, he’d put his money on the
latter.

There was a clatter of metal on wood. About seven pounds
louder than the noise the tossed flashbang made when it hit the floor. Thankfully,
this familiar sound didn’t precede a bright flash and jarring explosion.

“Don’t shoot me,” the man hollered, his voice no doubt
elevated on account of the sonic assault on his eardrums. “Ju-ju-just take all
my stuff.” He buried his face in his hands and a loudly mumbled, “Please don’t
... shoot ... me,” escaped through his fingers.

The man was of average height and weight. Cade figured he
had about twenty pounds on the guy. The man’s face was narrow and freshly
shaved, and with the way it was framed between the low-riding hat and turned-up
collar of his vest, guessing his age was a matter in futility.

Despite further aggravating his ankle from rocketing up the final
handful of stairs, the instant the man’s rifle had clattered to the floor, Cade
was up and rushing forward, the bed between him and the man, bellowing “Hands
up!” with the M4 trained on the stammering man’s sternum.

By the time Duncan had finished scaling the stairs, he saw
only the smartly made-up bed and the upper third of Cade’s body rising up
behind it. The younger man’s jaw was set in deep concentration, the rifle hung
from its sling, and his hands were out of sight, busy zipping ties on the
shooter’s wrists, Duncan presumed. Shotgun shouldered and trained on the
shooter’s legs, he stepped over the spent flashbang cylinder, a gossamer thin
wisp of smoke still curling out of one end, and cut past the foot of the bed.
Seeing Cade’s knee still planted in the cuffed shooter’s back, he slung the pump
gun and hustled forward to help.

“His weapon is out on the veranda,” Cade said, nodding to
his left. Then he rifled through the man’s vest pockets, finding a couple of
half-eaten sticks of jerky, a half-dozen granola bars, and a fistful of loose cartridges
for the rifle. The man was wearing a pair of catcher’s combination-shin-and-knee-guards
over cold weather snow pants. Cade unsnapped the gear and resumed frisking the
man, working both hands down his legs, one at a time, then proceeded up under
his arms before rolling him over and helping him to sit.

On the porch, in a corner, was the rest of the man’s
catcher’s gear. Duncan saw a helmet and chest protector that went with the leg
protection. There were some arm pieces, flexible at the elbows, that looked
like they belonged to a correctional facility’s Cell Extraction Team. All of
the black gear looked to have been heavily modified. Rattle-can painted a flat
black and duct taped lengthwise on the shin and forearm pieces were thin
runners of reinforcing steel. And no doubt to keep the swivels and clasps from
squeaking when he moved, all of the moving parts were wrapped with black
electrician’s tape. Cade called an all clear over the radio and stepped back into
the bedroom.

“Puts my magazine armor to shame,” he said to Duncan,
casting his gaze about the room. Unfurled on the floor and sitting atop a thin
inflatable mattress was an extreme temperature sleeping bag. Propped against
the wall next to the bag was a well-used internal frame REI pack in dark green.
It had bulging pockets on all sides and more black tape had been utilized here.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, the man craned his head
around. His eyes met Cade’s at a crazy angle. “I wasn’t trying to hurt
anybody,” he said in a near whisper.

Still holding the man down with a hand on one shoulder, Cade
said, matter-of-factly, “I know. But you were shooting at us all the same.”

“Tell me about the gear,” Duncan said. “You planning on
going as Johnny Bench for Halloween?”

“That
gear
has saved my ass more times than I can
count.”

“So you just walk around like one of them ... all stiff and
clumsy?” Duncan asked, his eyes wandering to a host of framed pictures arranged
atop the vanity near the stairs.

“I only move at night. I have a pair of night vision goggles
that tend to keep unwanted encounters few and far between. And I’m not real
proud of this ... but I’ve taken to wearing coveralls over my armor. I smear
them with innards and such and when I get to where I’m going I toss them. I’ve
got a couple of spare sets in my pack.”

“Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” Duncan said under
his breath.

“Huh?” the man said.

“Never mind,” Duncan said, a sad chuckle riding the tails of
his reply.

 “Help me with him,” Cade said. Grimacing, he pushed off of the
prisoner, stood up, and grabbed hold of the man’s left elbow. Following Cade’s
lead, Duncan grabbed a handful of the fluffy vest and together they helped the
man to his feet.

“Over here,” Cade said, leading him by the elbow towards the
bed.

“Not there,” said the man, his voice wavering. Then, in a panicked
state, he twisted his torso away from the bed in an attempt to avoid even the
slightest contact.

“Stand down,” Cade said, letting go of the man’s vest. “We
just want to talk to you.”

The words were lost on the man as he continued twisting his
body so that he fell hard to the floor instead of atop the queen-sized bed.

Duncan crouched down next to the man. Looked into his red-rimmed
hazel eyes and, judging from the gathered folds and crow’s feet there, got the
impression that the guy was closer to forty than thirty. He stripped the man of
his hat, releasing a tangle of curly brown hair shot through with gray that, along
with the age lines, all but confirmed his earlier assumption.
Signs of the
times
, thought Duncan, stroking his own silver goatee. “I know why you
don’t want to sit on the bed. And I can’t say that I blame ya.”

The man nodded, then seemed to relax a bit.

“We saw the grave out back,” Duncan said. “Quite a mound of
dirt ya dug up.” He pulled out his folding knife. Thumbed the blade loose from
the handle and flicked it open with a practiced snap of the wrist.

Watching from near the head of the bed, Cade saw the man’s
narrow-set eyes go wide, making him resemble a character in one of those British
clay animation shows Raven used to like to watch. For some reason the names
Wallace and Gromit immediately popped into his head. Strange how
inconsequential minutiae liked to resurface at the oddest of times, he thought,
pushing the memory to the corner of his mind where it belonged. “How long have
you been home?” he asked the man.

Though the man’s eyelids still seemed stretched to their anatomical
limits, somehow, upon hearing Cade utter that one short sentence, more bloodshot
whites of his eyes were revealed. “How did you know ...?” he asked, breathless.

“Better call the others forward,” Duncan said to Cade. “I’ll
handle this.” He cut the zip ties from the man’s wrists, folded the knife and
put it away in its sheath on his belt. He sighed and turned to sit on the foot
of the bed and suddenly the man was rushing at him.

While he was busy on the two-way, out of the corner of one
eye, Cade saw the flash of movement. Mid-sentence, he dropped the radio and, before
it had covered the distance to the floor, was drawing the Glock from its drop-leg
holster.

Not expecting the suddenness of the younger man’s movement, Duncan
tried to parry the perceived attack and instead fell sideways, arms flailing,
and got a real close look and whiff of the soiled bedspread on his way to the
floor. Falling face up and tensing in anticipation of the bone-jarring impact,
he turned his head left and his gaze locked on the black suppressor, muzzle the
size of a manhole cover, as it traced an arc across his breadbasket. And just
when he expected the muffled reports and tinkling brass to reach his ears, strong
hands grabbed his upper bicep and coat front and he experienced an unexpected
and rapid deceleration as his body was let down slowly and without injury to
the hardwood floor. As if in slow motion, Duncan looked away from Cade, who was
lowering his weapon nearly as fast as he’d drawn it, then walked his gaze back
across the ceiling and settled it on the younger man’s smiling face. What came
next surprised him more than the abrupt hockey check. The man let go of his
coat and arm and said: “I’m sorry, but I just reacted. That bed is soaked with
God only knows what. Would’ve moved it out of here already if it wasn’t for the
bend in the stairs.”

Bewildered and wanting a drink now more than ever, Duncan rolled
over to his stomach and, with the younger man’s help, got up on his aching
knees and finally rose creakily to his feet.

“Why the hell didn’t you just say so, Pete? I could’ve easily
broken a hip there.”

There was a slight tilt to the man’s head and now
his
face was a mask of confusion.

“He’s Oliver,” Cade said. “Pete is the older of the two.”

Duncan planted his hands on his hips and stared at the man
Cade had just called Oliver. “Glenda said Oliver was
thirty
.”

The air seemed to leave the room as the man drew in a deep
breath and sat on the foot of the bed. He buried his face in his hands. “My mom
isn’t dead?” he said, the words coming out muffled against his palms.

Duncan looked to Cade while pointing at the man sitting on
the end of the once forbidden bed. “How do you know who this man is?” he asked.

Cade said nothing. He simply pointed at the framed photos arranged
in a neat row and standing upright atop the vanity.

The man on the bed was sobbing now, but instead of consoling
him Duncan stalked over to the vanity. He looked closely at the different
photos. One front and center clearly showed Glenda and a rail-thin man that had
to be her husband Louie. In the photo they were dressed to the nines, he
wearing a three-piece suit and her in a long flowing burgundy dress. Duncan had
never met the man so there was no way for him to put his age into perspective
with the here and now. Glenda, however, looked a hundred years younger than she
did now. In the back row were a dozen framed pictures of younger kids, grandchildren,
he presumed. There were a few more of Glenda and Louie in happier times and taken
long ago—when black and white film was the norm.

The photo in question was leaning up against the mirror.
Duncan had no idea how Cade spotted it in the first place. Then again, there
were a lot of things that man did that seemed utterly unconventional until all
of the puzzle pieces fell together and the big old lightbulb illuminated the
method to his madness for all to see.

The 8x10 was in full color and in it were two men, one nearly
a head taller than the other. The taller man was bald as a billiard ball, while
the other was endowed with a full head of dark, curly hair and wore a bushy
beard. And peering out from the locks hanging over his forehead were familiar hazel-green
eyes. The eyes Oliver Gladson had inherited from Glenda Gladson thirty-plus years
ago.

Cade was on the veranda talking into the radio and out of
earshot.

Duncan turned away from the vanity. He parked his gaze on
Oliver. “That fella out there yappin’ on the radio is Cade Grayson. He’s a hell
of a good guy. Brash at times. But to know him is to love him.” Finally he offered
his hand and introduced himself. Then, against his better judgment, he added, “I’m
really sorry about your father. Glenda talks fondly about him, still.”

Still
, Oliver thought. Hit with the sudden
realization of where he was sitting and that the body—his father’s corpse—that
had soiled the bed was now buried under several feet of dirt out back, he rose
from the bed and sat down heavily on the floor.

“I get it now,” Duncan conceded. “Your mom told me what she
did to make it out of here alive.” He paused for a moment. When he finally went
on, Oliver was staring at him through eyes shot with red. “I’m so sorry you had
to find your father that way.”

Oliver nodded. He palmed the tears from his eyes and stared
at the photos on the vanity. “She left me a note. It was in with the pictures.
She waited for me or Pete to come home for as long as she could. And I did … a
little bit late, though.” He smiled. It was pained, though not forced in any
way. “Mom said she was going to Woodruff. As if there’s anything or anyone she
knows in Woodruff. Sure wasn’t before the dead started walking.”

“She never made it to Woodruff.”

Oliver made a face.

Feeling like an ass because of how he’d worded that last
part, Duncan blurted, “No. It’s not what you think. She didn’t
continue on
to Woodruff. She’s safe, though. We have a compound east of here. We have solar
power, water, food, and plenty of arms and ammo. Most importantly, Oliver ... your
mom, she’s with good people.”

Oliver’s entire body went slack like all of his bones had
liquefied. He slumped back against the foot of the bed, gazing at the vaulted ceiling.

The sound of engines roaring to life broke the stillness.

Cade poked his head inside. “They’re coming up now. Wilson
said Daymon’s real pissed. I’ll head him off at the pass for you.”

Duncan grunted. “Me? It was your idea,” he mouthed. Shaking
his head, he took a seat on the floor, knees popping as he did so. He handed
the cap back to Oliver and looked him in the eye. “I can’t imagine what you
went through to get here. If you want to talk about it ... I’m a good
listener.”

“Cannibals. Killers. And the dead,” Oliver said, still staring
off into space. “But I’m still a good man.” He donned his cap as his lower lip
began to quiver. “I never thought in a million years that I’d see any of my
family alive again.”

“You have Glenda back in your life now. Or you will soon. If
you want to tag along with us, that is.”

Oliver nodded. Eyes gone glassy, he cupped his chin with his
palms and stared out the French doors toward the reservoir.

Changing the subject, Duncan said, “You better let Cade zero
that rifle of yours in.”

“Oh, it’s zeroed,” Cade called from the veranda. “Come take
a look.”

After hauling his old bones off the hard floor, Duncan
trudged out to the veranda. Without a word, he accepted Oliver’s rifle from
Cade. Lev had been correct in his observation. It was an AR-style carbine with
a heavy barrel and a massive scope that took up two-thirds of the top rail. Up
front was a foldaway bipod and out back the cheek rest on the butt stock was
adjustable in seemingly a dozen different directions. Duncan checked and found
the rifle’s selector already set to
Safe
. He flicked the bipod legs down
and snugged the stock to his shoulder. The view through the scope made it seem
like he could touch whatever he trained it on. First off, he tracked down and
left, settling his gaze on the two vehicles as they neared the corner a block
south. The Land Cruiser was in the lead with Daymon behind the wheel and alone.
Wilson was riding next to Taryn in the front of the 4Runner. There was movement
in the gloomy back seat which Duncan presumed to be Lev and Jamie. Suddenly, brake
lights flared red off the snow. Both rigs slowed through the left turn and the
brake lights continued painting the street red as the SUVs crept through the
maze of prone corpses.