The Fall (Book 2): Dead Will Rise (26 page)

“Killing them...”

“Is not the most efficient option,” Tim said. “I'll do it if I have to, but I'd rather do it in a way that puts all of us at minimal risk.”

Kell was doubtful, but Tim smiled and started explaining.

There were no hunters in the woods. At least none from the mysterious group of southern survivors. That was a key element of the plan; no one unaccounted for. Until the scouts returned from their initial assessment, all other members of the group were to stay in camp. This had the unfortunate side effect of putting the hunters, armed with their rifles, on watch. The rest of the camp was, according to Tim's interrogation, without firearms.

Kell sat in the Jeep, watching through binoculars and waiting for the radio—liberated from the scout SUV—to squawk at him. If it did, if the members of the camp began to panic at the lack of communication from the absent scouts, Tim and the ladies would have to move in daylight. Which would be a death warrant for most, if not all, of the people Kell watched.

A single blare of the Jeep's horn would signal the deaths of dozens. The idea made his skin crawl.

Worse was the certain knowledge that he would do it. There really wasn't much choice; John's work could not be risked. The danger it posed at this stage was outweighed by the benefits in roughly the way a feather was outweighed by a neutron star. The only thin defense allowing him to act if it became necessary was knowing he wouldn't be pulling the trigger
.

The late-afternoon sun slid across the sky lazily, maddeningly slow for Kell. Every second of full light was another chance for it all to go wrong. Eventually the first fading tones of dusk began to set in, the world edging toward a duller gray.

Though he knew what would be happening in the building murk below, he couldn't see a bit of it.

Had Kell possessed the vision of a superhuman, this is what he would have seen.

Four men were spaced evenly around the camp, rifles in hand. They were not the only guns, only half of the available firepower. The circle of grass stood at the edge of the road, otherwise surrounded by tall, dead grass fading into trees and overgrowth. Three of the four men watching the night stood, though they often glanced back at the fire burning at the center of the camp, looking at the people chatting with them or just saying hello.

Night vision comes on slowly, and a bright light ruins it in an instant. Even had these four men realized the fact and kept their eyes peeled toward the steadily darkening woods, it wouldn't have helped. Whether they knew it or not, the guards were like many survivors—they had begun to rely on other senses much more than sight. In the night, the sound of a zombie swishing through dead grass and twigs might as well have been a warning siren. Still, the three standing guards were alert enough, if functionally blind.

The fourth was deep into a bottle of scotch roughly equal to a car payment. The apocalypse did have its perks, after all. The man was clever about it; the pickup truck between him and the rest of the camp kept prying eyes from spying his clandestine sips. And if he wanted to relax a little by sitting in a lawn chair, well, who could blame him? It's not like he was sleeping on the job.

The guard took a long look at the field and trees in front of him, then a glance to make sure no one was looking. He took a long, satisfying pull on his flask, tipping his head.

Rule number one of survival is to never show your neck to a predator.

An iron bar settle around his throat—or no, not iron, but the muscled forearm of a man built like a goddamn tank. The pressure was instant and ruthless; the wind in his upper throat and lower was separated like forlorn lovers, the minimal volume above sending some of Johnnie Walker's very best up and out in an expensive spray.

Cutting off wind served two purposes. The first and most obvious was to prevent the guard from raising any sort of alarm. The second and more devious, to activate the most primal fear response possible. A frightened man with a gun is a dangerous thing until he loses the capacity for rational action. Then he's just an ape with a metal club he doesn't understand.

Tim's arm tightened down, cutting off the flow of blood. Any second now...

There. Out like a light.

On the far side of the camp, next to the trailer containing the radio and spare guns—carefully controlled and accounted for when not in use—a second guard stood watch. This man was younger, more aware of his surroundings. Even fifty feet away he knew something was wrong immediately.

“Help!” the burbling cry came. “Someone just took my gun!”

The young guard turned from his post and ran toward the pickup, leaving the trailer undefended. To be fair, everyone else in the camp at least turned in that direction as the other three guards rushed to the scene. It was protocol, after all; stay where you are, let the men with weapons handle the threat. Be prepared.

Thus distracted, no one saw Emilia slip into the trailer. They certainly didn't see what she did with the wire cutters.

Out in the woods, through the scope of a rifle, the scene continued to unfold. From here Nicole could aim nearly anywhere in the camp. Positioned as she was facing the tailgate of the pickup, the only spot out of sight was the front end and the space behind it. The hunters were smart enough to split around the truck, two going around one end while the third took the other. Too bad they weren't quite able to recognize the distraction for what it was.

Juel crouched at the edge of the woods halfway between the truck and the trailer. Each of them had their compass points to cover, an army of four surrounding the camp. With all the gear salvaged from the abandoned military vehicles and armory back at the shelter, they could have taken over a small town. As it was, they had to make do with the bodies they had. Four former soldiers with a plan and the will to see it through no matter what the cost.

The heavy, long shape with its payload sat in the grass before her.

Soon.

If he could have seen it, Kell would have been both impressed and relieved. But even through binoculars, it was hopeless. The coming night and blazing fire reduced his field of vision to a small area made up mostly of shapes.

But if he
could
have seen it...

“What the hell?” the young guard said as he came upon the older, drunker man.

The smell of fine whiskey was abundant, but an afterthought considering the scene before him. In his chair, the older guard struggled fruitlessly to free himself, hands seemingly glued to the arms of the thing. No, not glued, he saw as he moved in closer. There were thin strips of plastic holding him in place.

“He took my goddamn gun!” the old man shouted. “Look—”

The younger guard was suddenly confronted with the rapidly growing stock of a rifle moving toward his face. With enough time he would have noted the familiar lines of it; this was a rifle he'd used before.

There wasn't time, of course. A split second later it hit him in the face, shattering his nose, cracking half a dozen teeth, and breaking three off outright. A spiderweb of cracks flowered in his cheekbone, though that condition would go undiagnosed. In the end the injuries were less important than simple physics—the young man's head snapped back, brain doing its best impression of a rubber ball as it smacked against the inside of his skull.

Tim was moving out of the truck's bed even as the young man began to fall. He had in fact been moving before that, swinging the rifle as he exploded over the metal edge and into the fight.

The two other guards froze. It was only a momentary hesitation, and one that wouldn't have made any difference in the end. Tim was simply too close, large hands darting out to strike before either of the other men could step back far enough to raise their long guns.

To be fair, an attack by a giant suddenly materializing next to you is usually enough to freeze most people.

Tim yanked on the gun nearest him with his left hand, pulling the hapless guard along with it, making it that much more effective when Tim's right elbow arced back into the man's face. Without pause that same arm, now trailing crimson from the second shattered nose of the night, shot forward to grasp the remaining guard's gun. Analysis took almost no time at all. The gun was attached to a strap, the strap to the man, and if Tim knew one thing, it was leverage.

He pulled, bowing his head slightly, and pushed with his legs. The headbutt dropped the last guard much less gently than the first. Wasting no time, Tim freed the weapons from two unconscious enemies and one wishing for the painless embrace of sleep.

The drunk only stared in amazement.

Four men stumbled from behind the pickup; three battered, one buttered. They moved in a rough circle facing outward, hands zipped together left to right. In the circle of light cast by the fire, Tim saw frightened faces, and not a few angry ones. At first he wondered why they weren't surprised, hadn't broken ranks to offer help when the sounds of struggle reached them.

Then he noted Juel's dim outline ten feet into the tall grass, rocket-propelled grenade at the ready. Emilia crouched at the entrance to the trailer, one leg extended to the ground, the other beneath her as she sighted down a sub-machine gun.

“Well, that speeds things up a bit,” Tim said. With a grunt of effort he whipped each of the hunter's rifles into the woods. “I imagine you're all worried right now, thinking about what's going to happen next. Let me reassure you. If you behave—that is, if you don't attack and do as we tell you—you won't be hurt. At all.”

There was, unsurprisingly, no sudden wave of relief.

“These ladies are going to cover you while I disable your vehicles,” Tim said. The crowd began to mutter at this, people hanging halfway out of vehicles slowly reaching inside, almost certainly for weapons. “Now, I know you're not happy about this, but before any of you do something stupid I should mention one other important detail.”

Tim pulled the hat from the drunk guard, held it high above his head. A thunderous crack echoed across the open field, the hat leaping out of his hand to spin through the air. He looked from face to face, watching for any sign of impending violence.

“Our friend in the woods is under strict orders. You stay still, don't try to hurt anyone, and you're golden.” Tim's face grew grim. “Some of you are thinking that you have numbers. That you can overwhelm us. We know you have other weapons. Machetes and knives and the like. And you know what? You probably could take us if you all came at once.”

He paused a beat. “But some of you would die. Maybe a lot of you. I took four armed men on my own. All we want is to keep you from leaving this place. The choice is yours.”

Back at the top of the hill, Kell could only catch the barest glimmer of what was going on. His window was cracked a few inches, making the sound of the gunshot crisp. There was no flurry of activity, no explosions or further gunfire. The radio—the one his team communicated with—didn't stutter to life in his ear with the sound of a warning. As far as he could tell, the plan was going off without a hitch.

That thought had barely finished whisking its way from one side of his brain to the other when the zombie slapped a hand against the window of the Jeep. Kell jumped hard, shoving himself away from the door.

“Ah, Fuck!” he shouted, fumbling for a weapon.

Another meaty slap followed, this one near the rear. Then another, more and more until he realized with dawning horror that it wasn't a few stragglers wandering through the deserted Iowa night, but a swarm of unknown size.

He frantically keyed the mic on his radio. “We have a problem up here,” he said, fumbling at the ignition. “There's a swarm all around me.” No response. “Hey, can you hear me?” Nothing. “Well, shit.”

The engine came to life with a low growl. Kell hit the lights and sped down the road, only sparing a brief glance to gauge the enemy.

Thirty seconds later he was screeching to a halt at the edge of camp, snagging his spear as he bolted from the Jeep. Tim stood from the tire he was slashing, irate.

“What the hell are you doing?” Tim demanded.

“Sorry,” Kell panted as he ran toward Tim. “We have incoming. Swarm. No idea how big.”

There was an explosion of worried protests from the strangers arrayed about the camp.

“You've got us all killed!”

“What are we going to do?”

“We need our guns!”

“Quiet!” Kell roared. “What we need to do is spend the next few minutes getting ready to fight!” Everyone shut up in a heartbeat. Even Tim said nothing. “Good,” Kell continued. “Now, everyone who has a hand-to-hand weapon, get out in the middle and form a circle. Anyone who doesn't, or who can't fight, get in a vehicle and lock the doors. Some of these zombies might know how to work a handle.”

A few people tentatively reached for weapons, eying Tim as they did.

“Go ahead,” Tim said. “Just be sure you use them on the right people. The
dead
people. I catch any of you coming after any of ours, you're gonna regret it.”

Out of the dozens of camp residents, only seven moved to the center of the camp. Every other person who wasn't on Kell's team hid away. He stared at them disbelievingly until one of the volunteers, a young woman with short red hair, stepped forward.