Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 9): Frayed (35 page)

Throughout the night, Brook’s sleep was interrupted by all
manner of ghouls. It had started like it always did with her father’s leering
face, ashen and slack and scarfing down a slimy rope of her mother’s intestine.
Then she saw her brother, Carl, only he was never one of them. He was burned
beyond recognition and trudging towards her, relentlessly, and cutting off her
every avenue of retreat. Like bergs calving from a glacier, glistening hunks of
pink meat cleaved off his bones and fell to the floor where they struck with
heavy wet slaps. And just when she had convinced herself it wasn’t really him,
her name was carried on a labored breath rising from the depths of his fire-ravaged
lungs.

She awoke with a start, shivering and wrapped in her thin,
sweat-soaked sheet. “Raven,” she called.
Nothing.
“Raven. Sasha.” Her
words carried an urgency with them.

There was a knock on the door.

“Who is it?” she croaked.

“Glenda.”

“Wait one,” Brook said. She cast the sheet aside and pulled
the string, setting the single sixty-watt bulb burning. She threw on an ARMY
sweatshirt, stepped into her boots and rose from the bunk. Crossing the plywood
floor, she looked into the gloom and saw that Raven and Sasha’s bunks were
empty. The thrown latch on the plate door confirmed the girls were elsewhere,
in the Kids’ quarters watching movies or listening to music, she presumed.

Glenda was looking her usual spry self, smiling, gray hair
tucked under a hat with writing on it that read
I’d Rather Be Gardening
.
Wouldn’t we all, thought Brook. Eschewing a good morning or hello she said,
“Have you seen the girls?”

“They’re in the Kids’ room tending to Max’s paws. Poor guy.
I doubt if he had ever been exposed to snow like this before.”

“I bet he has,” said Brook. “He’s a hard charger. I’ll make
sure he takes it easy today.”

“The girls want to go topside and play in the snow before it
all melts.”

“Melts?”

“Yesterday’s storm was just a tease of what’s to come. Blew
right through late evening, I would guess, and was supplanted by warmer air moving
in from the south.”

Brook looked at her Timex.
Quarter of eleven
. “I
slept in.”

“Raven said you needed it.”

“Did they eat?” Brook asked, suddenly realizing her concern
for Sasha was growing with each passing minute that Wilson and Taryn were gone.

“Cold scones and powdered milk. Did I do good?”

“Perfect.” Brook strapped on her thigh rig and slipped the
Glock home. Grimacing as the scar tissue stretched, she scooped her carbine off
the floor and followed Glenda out the door and to the right down the cramped
hall.

Seth was manning the security pod and tethered to the HAM
radio by a pair of headphones. The Nintendo Game Boy Cade had given him sat on
the desk in front of him. When he saw the ladies coming through, he slipped the
headset off and greeted them warmly.

“Hi Seth,” said Brook, squeezing his shoulder with her good
hand. Her right arm was slow to wake up and hung at her side, pins and needles
still shooting through it. A by-product of the Z attack, anti-serum, or a
combination thereof. “Did you pick up any more of those strange radio transmissions?”

He pulled his long hair back and pinned it behind his ears.
“Not since last night,” he said, a pained look crossing his face. “I’ll keep
checking all of the obscure frequencies, though. If it’s any consolation … I
still think it was a bounce … some kind of anomaly that let us hear something
transmitted half a world away. I keep asking myself … why would survivors not
even try to pronounce a few well-known English words? I mean … even if they
were Chinese speakers fresh off the boat when the shit hit the fan, don’t you
think they’d throw in a
help us
or
we’re alive
now and again?”

“You’d think,” Brook said. “How about the road?”

“Still desolate. The snow is starting to melt.”

“Already?”

Glenda was about to recount a similar weather swing in the nineties
when Foley and Tran edged around the corner and came to a halt. The security
container was now filled to brimming with warm bodies, a couple of them in need
of washing and at least a two-minute stint with a toothbrush.

Wiping sleep from his eyes, Foley said, “Mornin.”

As usual, Tran said nothing. Just smiled that toothy grin
that had gone slightly yellow overnight.

Brook leaned away from the wall of halitosis. “Going
topside?”

Foley nodded. Then his gaze swung to the monitor. “Is the
road steaming?”

Seth leaned back in his chair and nodded.

Taking advantage of the brief pause, Glenda launched into
her story. “I remember one particular day in early October back in ‘97. It was
already a real scorcher of a summer … prolonged through September on into October
… classic Indian. I remember my youngest, Oliver, bellyaching about the ski
season never arriving. About how he’d never get to meet the Ski Patrol folks
before the Ogden crowd invaded the place. He was set to start at the resort that
fall … probably food service or something. But … the $5.15 an hour came with a
pass good for several different ski areas—”

“Where’s Oliver now?” asked Foley, taking his eyes off the
flat panel monitor and meeting Glenda’s watery gaze. “You don’t talk about your
kids much.”

Brook shot the man a steely glare that shut him up and
caused him to look away and subconsciously start to stroke his lengthening
beard.

Glenda swallowed. Her lips were making that dry smacking
sound as she went on, “I believe it was ninety degrees that day and only two
weeks from Halloween. Louie made a crack about Oliver going trick-or-treating
as the Devil. Oliver spouted back about how he’s sixteen and would rather be
skiing in a Devil costume. Anyway”—she paused and wiped her eyes on a sleeve—“it
started getting real cold just after dinner and was snowing before Buffy the
Vampire Slayer was over. Hell of a swing.”

All eyes were on Glenda and it was getting hot in the
cramped confines. There was a clomp of boots on wood and Heidi was there,
craning over Tran’s shoulder to see what was going on.

“Glenda’s telling us a story,” Brook whispered.

Glenda smiled at Heidi, than winked at the woman she had
recently started to think of as a kindred spirit. A real survivor.

“Go on,” Heidi said. “Sorry for the interruption.”

And she did. “It snowed all night,” Glenda said. “Got about
double the accumulation we saw yesterday”—she smiled and looked at the low
ceiling—“but alas, it melted the next day. All gone. I think it was seventy
degrees before noon. The look on Oliver’s face.” She shook her head. “He spent hours
waxing his skis and getting the edges razor-sharp. His gear was laid out and he
woke to sunshine and drips off the eaves. And adding insult to injury, school
didn’t even get canceled.” She chuckled, The chuckle petered off, her back
heaved, and a mournful wail escaped her lips.

“Cry it out,” Brook said, wrapping an arm around the woman’s
shoulder. “Cry it out.”

Foley saw Glenda lean forward and bury her face in the shallow
curve of Brook’s neck and shoulder. He crabbed forward, dodged the hanging
light, then paused next to Seth to let him know he and Tran were going to clear
the snow off the solar panels and then top off the generators.

Tran also slinked by the two women, who were still locked in
an embrace and having a private conversation. He slid past Foley and then under
the hanging bulb, clearing it by half an inch. He continued past Heidi, offering
only a nod, and disappeared into the gloom of the foyer.

Being nearly a full head taller and much heavier than Tran,
Foley was forced to wait a moment in the breach. He spent the time looking at
the different feeds coming though what seemed like miles of new cable he had reeled
out to the CCTV cameras in the weeks following his unexpected arrival at the
compound. He could see that the road was indeed clear. Clear of vehicles. Clear
of wandering monsters. And by the looks of it, clear of snow by noon. Sitting
in the shadow cast by the firs and pines ringing the clearing, the helicopter
and wheeled vehicles parked in what was commonly known as the
motor pool
were still coated with three or four inches of snow. The same heavy
accumulation flocked the branches and tops of the trees, causing some of them
to list over like the Grinch’s sad little Christmas tree. Also affected by the
previous day’s dump, the Black Hawk’s static blades—already weighted down by
the camouflage netting—were drooping so much so that Foley wondered if even the
diminutive Tran could walk underneath them without receiving a haircut.

Glenda’s cry lasted a couple of minutes until she suddenly
stood up straight, dried her eyes and went about smoothing her shirt and jeans.
From embarrassment more so than a desire to rid them of wrinkles, thought
Foley. Then, feeling a little uneasy, and probably more embarrassed than the
older woman, he scooted past her and put a little squeeze on her shoulder, a
move that instantly seemed inappropriate in such close quarters, and one that he
immediately regretted. He had wanted to offer a word of condolence to go along
with the physical gesture, but it had gotten trapped between conception and
verbalization. He looked away sheepishly. He was no good at this type of thing
and he knew it. He didn’t cry. Never had.

“She’ll be alright, Foley,” said Brook, thankfully letting
him off the hook. “She’s a tough ol’ broad.”

Wiping her eyes, Glenda chuckled. “Carry on,” she told
Foley. “What you do is more important than consoling this”—she smiled, a
twinkle in her eyes—“ol’ broad.”

Foley disappeared through the foyer with Heidi following
after. A handful of seconds passed and the sound of two doors opening
simultaneously echoed back to the security container. The creak of the front
entry was one as the three adults filed outside. The second was the sonorous
hum of the door to the Kids’ quarters swinging wide, the hinges of which had
purposefully gone unoiled. Kind of an early warning system for any adults who
might be standing around and jawing about subjects not appropriate for a
twelve-year-old’s ears, and probably questionable for even someone two years
senior.

Both doors closed at the same time. Then sounds: Footfalls
on plywood. Giggles filtering around the corner. And the clop of boots coming
to a halt by the foyer.

Brook craned around. “Where you going, girls?”

“Topside,” replied Sasha, her bright red hair peeking from
under a yellow stocking cap sporting a golf-ball-sized tuft of white fluff up
top.

Brook suppressed a smile. The teen, from the ears up, reminded
her of a Candy Corn—Brook’s least favorite Halloween candy, by a country mile.
She caught Raven’s gaze. Held it and said, “You know the rules.”

Raven nodded. Her black stocking cap was foraged from
somewhere. Maybe a stalled-out car on the road, Brook thought. At any rate, the
skull and crossbones emblazoned on it was more Taryn’s style than her little
girl’s.

“Be careful. The dead are going to start stirring sooner or
later. Watch your six.”

“l will, Mom.”

Sasha was looking on, a question hanging on her slightly
parted lips.

“You too, Sash. You’re the oldest. Do you remember what that
entails?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m in charge. Therefore the responsibility for
whatever happens lies square on my shoulders.”

“That’s correct. And that’s where the trust part comes in. I
am entrusting you with my Bird.”

Raven smiled at the sound of her nickname.

“Mrs. Grayson,” Sasha said. “May we take a gun?”

Brook shook her head. “Shouldn’t need one if you stay inside
the wire and keep your runabout short. You have your knives, I see.”

Glenda was following the exchange with rapt attention. Her head
moved as if on a swivel. Left, right and then back again, taking in every word.

“We’ll keep it short,” said Sasha, setting the ball on her
confection-looking-hat bobbing to-and-fro. “Promise.”

“Go along then, girls.”

“Max?”

“No, Raven.” Brook pointed toward her feet.

Message received. Raven turned to follow Sasha out, the
corners of her mouth turned down. Not a full-blown pout, thought Brook. But
close.

“Raven,” called Brook. When the girl looked over her
shoulder, Mom arched a brow and made like she was tugging an imaginary item
hanging from her neck.

Raven nodded. Reached her hand into her jacket, grasped the
nylon cord and displayed the slender metal tube hanging there.

“Have fun, ladies,” Brook said as the girls scampered off.
She turned back and caught Seth looking at her. “What?”

“You sure?”

“Says the eye in the sky. They have blades. Besides … what
could happen to them?”

“They’re kids with cabin fever,” he replied. “A lot.” At
that, he turned his eyes to the monitor and saw the girls already across the
clearing and threading their way past Daymon’s Winnebago.

“Well played, Mom,” Glenda said. “Let’s go now, young
Brooklyn Grayson. It’s time for your daily treatment.”

Cade awoke just as a slab of wet snow broke free from the
steeply canted roof a dozen feet overhead. In his mind’s eye he saw it drawn by
gravity down the steep steel pitch, the swishing sound the granular crystals
made as they picked up speed reminding him of a barber’s straight razor taking
a pass over a leather strap. The noise lasted but a split second then silence
ensued and a blocky man-sized shadow hurtling towards the ground flashed in
front of the south-facing window.

Look out below
, thought Cade, a half-beat before
hearing the resulting wet plops of the moisture-laden snow impacting the
driveway.

There were no curse words rising up from below the window.
Which was a good thing, considering everybody was pretty much irritable and on
edge anyway. However, the next slab to take the plunge did so nearer the front
of the house, creating enough of a racket from beginning to end to put a stop to
Duncan’s snoring—momentarily.

The acrid stench of flashbang residue was first to hit
Cade’s nose. Then the pong of death coming from the bed a yard from his head. Though
noticeable, it had no effect on him. He had been surrounded by it for what
seemed like ten lifetimes now. It was in his pores and hair and clothes. The
same had been true in the Sand Box. After spending any length of time over
there, one got used to the combination of unwashed bodies, human waste runoff,
and the distinct smells of locals cooking with different staples and spices. Coming
home that first time had really thrown him for a loop. Though familiar, the
sights and sounds and smells he’d taken for granted before were at times
disconcerting. The thought of which helped him place the one odor overlying it
all—the rancid smell of old man farts. Easily pinnable on Duncan, who continued
snoring away somewhere near the front of the house.

He looked at his watch.
Ten of eleven. Shit!

More snow lost out to the rising temperature outside and
crashed to the driveway below, causing Duncan to go silent for a long three-count
before the snoring resumed. It was a kind of wet rattle, interspersed with the
inane and indecipherable mutterings of someone suffering from PTSD as well as a
handful of undiagnosed problems of the head brought about by the day-to-day
horror surviving the zombie apocalypse had become.

After staring at the ceiling and cursing himself for failing
to rise at daybreak, Cade looked the length of his body and saw that his foot
was still
toes above his nose
and parked atop his pack which he had
wedged in the walnut vanity’s kneehole. He wiggled his toes inside his left
boot. Saw the leather give a little on the sides where the foot normally hinged
and then a barely perceptible ripple of the metatarsals pressing against the hard
leather toecap. Expecting a flare of pain, he felt only a dull throb emanating
from deep inside. He imagined the angry purple bruising that he knew was there
just underneath his bloused pants leg. He hadn’t let injury stop him in South
Dakota, and he wasn’t about to let it stop him from making the most out of
however much time was left of the brief gift the previous day’s inclement
weather had bestowed upon the living.

Before enduring the pain he knew extricating himself from
his prone position was sure to bring about, he propped his body up on his left
elbow. Craning his head back, he cast his gaze the length of the master suite
past the perfectly made up bed, Duncan’s legs—boots to knees—which were sticking
out past the foot of said bed, and onward to the veranda where silhouetted in
the flat light filtering in was a form holding a scoped rifle he immediately
pegged as Lev.

Cade gritted his teeth as a sharp stab of breath-robbing
pain took hold where the multitude of tiny bones came together inside his ballooned
ankle. Sweat forming on his brow, he rolled over onto his stomach and sucked
wind. Who had he been trying to fool earlier? This one
was
as bad as the
Dakota injury. Using the vanity for support, he rose shakily. Wiped his brow
and then dug out another half-dozen little brown pills. He swallowed them dry, then
grabbed the handrail and made his way down the short run of stairs leading to
the landing. Took them down, gripping the handrail, crossed to the other side and
scaled their counterparts in a like fashion. Feeling the cold sheen of sweat
reforming on his brow, he continued on down the narrow hall leading to the
master bath.

Squinting against the light streaming in through the
shuttered east-facing window, he bypassed the inoperable toilet and sidled up
to the old white clawfoot tub. He leaned with his knees pressed to the tub’s
lip, parted his fly and let loose. The stream was slow at first, but when it
got going he saw that his urine was the color of bile—a muddy shade of yellow
like one of those expensive upper-shelf mustards. There was a hamster banging
around in his head and his lips were crisscrossed with tiny cracks, and through
the night, little beads of white froth had dried at the corners. He didn’t need
his wife here to tell him he was showing symptoms of dehydration. He’d been so
focused on culling the dead that he’d neglected his own body’s needs.

He finished his business, and once the last of the oily looking
yellow liquid had trickled down the drain, he replaced the stopper.

He retraced his steps, testing the ankle by descending and
then ascending the stairs without relying on the handrail.
Good to go
.
He didn’t pass out. Nor did he collapse. Mike Desantos would have barked,
Rub
some dirt on it, pussy!

Smiling at the thought of his old friend, Cade corralled his
rifle and proceeded towards the veranda, where he saw Lev in virtually the same
pose as before. As he passed by Duncan, who was still sound asleep but no
longer snoring, he thumped the rifle against the soles of his boots and in his
best DI voice hollered, “Private Winters … you
maggot
… we missed you at
morning roll. Wake up, you pond-scum sucking gutter-dweller!”

Duncan’s eyes fluttered and then his boot heels clicked
together. Whether it was an involuntary reaction in response to the authoritative
voice, muscle memory still ingrained from snapping to attention at a moment’s
notice during basic training, or a direct result from the carbine stock coming
into contact with his boots, Cade could care less. Sand was slipping through
the hourglass and he wanted to get to Eden before the monsters regained full mobility.

Without stopping to confirm that his rude move had produced
the desired effect, Cade limped ahead to the veranda.

When he parted the sheer curtains and opened the left side of
the French door, he was struck instantly by the temperature swing. Glenda knew
her stuff. In only twenty-four hours the weather had turned from darn near
arctic to balmy in comparison.

He craned around the door divider and saw that from where
Lev was standing the Iraq war veteran had a clear view of all of downtown
Huntsville, the cemetery due west of there, and the corpse-strewn green-space
and beach across the thin blue-green finger of Pineville Reservoir coming between
the two.

The milled metal forestock of Lev’s inherited carbine was
resting on his makeshift shooter’s pad of folded-up blue jeans arranged on the veranda
rail. He was sitting on the purloined walnut vanity stool with the five-thousand-dollar
rifle snugged to his shoulder, eye close to the massive scope and one arm
wrapped around the stock, holding it rock steady. A two-way radio was clutched
in his other hand and he was talking to someone presumably near the boat launch
where the carbine’s substantial barrel was trained.

“Whatcha got?” Cade asked.

Lev didn’t change his posture nor did he attempt to make eye
contact. “I have eyes on Jamie and the Kids. They’ve been at it for about
ninety minutes. I figure they’re two or three hundred shy of being finished.”

“How are they taking it?”

“Better now that the whistling has stopped. Creepy shit. I
watched Wilson lose his cookies first. Then a little later Taryn and Jamie blew
chunks all over the snow.”

Duncan edged up to the railing. “Last night I got a little
teaser of what Cade heard yesterday morning.” He went on to describe the
Chinese scouts they came across and what he heard coming from their maws.

“Good thing we let you two sleep through it, then,” Lev
stated.

Cade said, “Hey,” to get Lev’s attention. Lev raised up from
the rest and sat straight, one hand holding the rifle in check against gravity.
“Yes?” he said in as calm a tone as a man about to face a hurricane head on could
muster.

“It’s cool you didn’t wake me,” Cade said. “My body was
trying to tell me something anyway.” He took a bottled water from the side
table and spun the cap off. Drank it in one long pull and didn’t stop until the
bottle crinkled in on itself. Before opening a much-needed second bottle he
went on, “What time did everyone head out?”

“The Kids and Jamie … around oh-eight-hundred.”

“Urch and Oliver?” asked Duncan.

“You mean Daymon and his new buddy,
O.G.
?”

“O.G.,” said Cade. “Isn’t that some gang thing? Original Gangster
… I think.”

“Correct—” began Lev.

“—Or Oliver Gladson,” finished Duncan.

Cade said nothing.

Lev said, “They left for Eden at first light in the Land
Cruiser.” He paused for a second, a laugh trapped in his chest and threatening
to bust out. Cade was looking at him intently, now. Sensing something was being
withheld he said, “And?”

Lips pursed, Lev choked out, “Seemed like they were on a
mission.”

“What’s so dang funny?” drawled Duncan.

Shaking his head, cheeks blushing red, Lev maintained a
forced quiet.

“Spit … it … out,” Duncan ordered. “Or I’ll tell Jamie what
you told me about her prowess in the
sack
.”

“That’s
fucking
blackmail. I didn’t tell you shit.”

The radio crackled. Jamie said, “You coming, Lev?”

Cade smiled big at the timing of that one.

Duncan said, “I know you didn’t. But your little lady
doesn’t know what I do or don’t know.” He smiled.

Deciding the Old Man’s bullshit arm-twisting only warranted
a fraction of the information, Lev said, “When those two left they had to step
over
you.”

“And?” Cade asked.

“Oliver made it over with no problems.” Lev’s nostrils
flared. He shook his head, a twinkle in his eyes regarding some yet to be
divulged detail banging around in his head.

“We don’t have time for this,” said Cade. “Divulge. Now. What
are they up to?”

Lev fixed his gaze on Cade. “So … Daymon is stepping over
you and out of nowhere you flinch and your arms fly up in front of your face
and you’re in some Rocky Marciano boxing pose in your sleep. Then … Oliver is
chanting softly, ‘tea bag, tea bag, tea bag’ … on and on, like that.”

“And?” the look on Cade’s face still passive.

Now Duncan is pursing his lips and harboring a belly laugh
of his own.

“Did he … tea bag? Whatever that is.” Cade looked over at
Duncan. “What’s a tea bag? I’m guessing it’s not Darjeeling blend.”

Both men were holding their sides now. Lev had put the rifle
down. Then, as if he were playing a game of charades, he went into great detail
what a proper tea bagging entailed.

With a look of utter disgust parked on his face, Cade asked,
“And why didn’t you stop him from following through,
Lev
?”

“Didn’t need to. Right when he grew a pair and was about to drop
trou, your hands relaxed and went back to your sides … one of them near your
Glock. That was when Daymon said ‘Hell no … motherfucker will blow my balls off
in his sleep’ and pulled his drawers up quicker than shit.”

Cade faked a laugh. “Ha ha. One brush of ball sack … hell,
one little pubic hair hits my nose and the owner gets a free neutering
compliments of my Gerber.”

“If it’s a woman pube?” said Duncan, tears streaming from
the corners of his eyes.

In a moment of levity, Cade played along, saying, “We’ll
cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Being left hanging in limbo on the radio for Jamie became
unacceptable after roughly ninety seconds. “Are you coming or not?” she asked
again, her tone, delivered through the small speaker, shrill and demanding.