Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (10 page)

Eventually Elvis put the fact that he was being watched to
the back of his mind and finished clearing the main rectangle. He was dutifully
plowing the splintered and broken trees to the periphery when he happened to
cast an absentminded glance towards the porch and noticed that Bishop—or his
doppelgänger mannequin—was no longer scrutinizing his work.

Where did you go?
Elvis thought, bringing the
clanking dozer to a halt. With the throbbing engine rattling his bones he took
off his Husker’s hat with its newly acquired band of sweat, craned his head
left and, in the distance, near the north gate, spotted a pair of mercenaries
hacking the arms off a newly arrived pair of walking dead, but no Bishop. He
looked right and saw a flash of light off of chrome beyond the lake house. A
beat later a vehicle whose profile looked vaguely familiar cut the corner,
trailing a turbid cloud of dust, brown and gauze-like. Finally the boxy front
end and gleaming bumper was aimed at him and he recognized the hydraulic boom
protruding like a shark’s fin from the bed. In the next instant he heard the
engine and exhaust note and squelch of tires on gravel and it became obvious
that the tow truck he’d driven non-stop from Nebraska was now approaching fast
along the lake road. Then, as if it couldn’t get any stranger, the light bar
flared on, strobing orange and yellow as it geared down and disappeared again
behind a staggered grouping of A-frames and hewn-log structures and boat houses
stretching west away from Bishop’s lake house.

Because of the way the light spilling through the canopy
played off the approaching vehicle’s windshield, Elvis had no idea who was
behind the wheel until he saw the thick neck and high brow and coal black hair
of the driver, which told him unequivocally that it was none other than Bishop
himself.

The tow truck crunched to a complete stop a dozen yards
beyond the dozer, and the backup warning sounded even before the trailing dust
cloud caught it. With a discordant beeping filling the air, the window powered
down and Bishop hung his head out and expertly reversed down the thirty-foot-wide
corridor Elvis had gouged out of the forest.

The annoying backup warning ceased and the emergency lights
went dark. Elvis watched Bishop spill out and shoulder the door shut.

Unsure what to do, Elvis remained seated and watched Bishop
walk the length of the makeshift driveway, pacing off dimensions front to back
and then left to right. Apparently satisfied, Bishop flashed Elvis a thumbs up
and made his way slowly towards the idling dozer, grinning.

Mired in indecision, Elvis silenced the big diesel and was
preparing to dismount when he saw Bishop halt at the newly created ‘T’
junction, gaze west down the road and begin talking into a small radio of some
sort.

Following his first impulse, Elvis walked along the
tractor’s muddy tread, hopped to the ground and took a few tentative steps
forward, straining to hear what Bishop was saying.

But before he could get within ear shot he was met with a
glare and an open palm that could only mean one thing:
Keep your distance
.

Faking an air of nonchalance, Elvis leaned against the
tractor, cracked open a warm bottle of water, and fought to stay awake. Barely
a minute had passed when he heard the distinct
braaap
of a big rig’s
compression braking coming across the narrow finger of lake from the northwest.

A short while later an eighteen-wheeler and its accompanying
cacophony of engine noise and rattling couplings appeared momentarily some
distance away. Trailing a tail of dust and dragging fallen pine needles along
the ground in its wake, flashes of chrome and glass were evident between the
houses as it traced the arc on a southeasterly heading. A minute later it
passed directly in front of Elvis and there was a metallic gnashing of gears as
it slowed and made the same run out to the left as the tow truck had earlier. A
blast of dusty air washed over Elvis and then there was the hiss of pneumatics
and the big rig lurched and shimmied to a full stop.

Then with the radio pressed to his mouth and his free hand
offering additional visual cues, Bishop directed the olive-drab Kenworth into
the flag cut where the driver snugged it cheek-to-jowl next to the tow truck,
leaving both rear bumpers lined up perfectly.

Elvis watched on as Bishop conferred with the driver, who
was wiry and compact and wore his ball cap creased and flannel shirt cut at the
sleeves. In Elvis’ estimation the silver-haired man was aged a hair north of
fifty and was probably born in the sleeper cab of a big rig.

As the conversation ensued, Elvis regarded the two trucks of
disproportionate size and functionality and racked his brain trying to figure
out why Bishop had wanted them shoehorned in there in the first place. After
kicking it around for a minute and coming up with no logical explanation, he
leaned against the dozer’s track and waited for his next task.

Elvis didn’t have to wait long. He watched a wide Cheshire
Cat-like grin appear on Bishop’s face as he slipped the radio into a pocket and
clapped the smaller man on the shoulder and sent him scurrying off across the
road in the direction of a nearby garage.

After the driver was gone from sight, Elvis watched Bishop
cross the road and found his gaze shifting from the man’s no nonsense, hard set
eyes to the semi-automatic pistol holstered low on his thigh.

Still a dozen feet separating them, Bishop called out, “You
just about finished with your break?”

Swallowing hard, Elvis tried hard to think of a way for
someone in his position to say no without getting himself killed. But nothing
brilliant came to mind, so instead of offering potential fodder for Bishop’s legendary
temper, he simply nodded.

“Good,” said Bishop, his disarming smile returning. “Because
I’m going to need you to step it up and knock out the rest of the landing zone.
Carson and the boys should be arriving within the hour.” The smile faded as
Bishop noticed the driver returning from the garage.

With his upper body swaying unnaturally to and fro, the
graying driver walked across the road, through the golden bars of light
spilling from above, in one hand a battered and dinged red toolbox, and in the other
what looked like an automotive battery. And clamped under the arm lugging the
battery was some kind of satchel about the size a doctor would have carried
back when they still made house calls. As the driver walked the length of the
cut he began to slow and favor the side with the toolbox, a clear indication
that the thing held some serious hardware.

Elvis caught Bishop’s eye and hitched a brow, then nodded at
the man doing a Sherpa’s work. A safe way to break the ice, he supposed. Not
quite a prying question. And not the meek stance of silence he’d been
practicing. A perfect move that left the ball in Bishop’s court.

But Bishop didn’t bite. Instead, he shouted, calling the
driver over. Exchanged a few words with the smaller man, gripped his shoulder
briefly and sent him on his way again.

What happened next made Elvis question his decision of not
following his gut and fleeing to another point of the compass—
any
other
point in the compass—instead of rejoining Bishop and his band of mercenaries.
For when the driver turned to walk away, a boxy pistol appeared in Bishop’s
fist and without pause, smile widening, he fired a single shot that entered
behind the man’s ear and sent the hat flying one way, the body crumpling the
other.

Still wearing the smile, Bishop crossed the road. Forcing a
smile of his own while doing his best not to acknowledge the execution that
he’d just witnessed, Elvis said, “Looks like the cut turned out OK?”

“Perfect fit,” answered Bishop, holstering the pistol. “Now
fire that thing up. And when you’re done with the LZ,” he nodded towards the
house. “You see those fir rounds along the back there?”

Shifting his gaze to the breezeway between the lake house
and what he guessed was a combination garage and boat house, Elvis noticed what
looked like an entire forest’s worth of knee-high fir rounds, each the
circumference of a manhole cover. Retaining the faux grin, he nodded and asked
the obvious, “What do you want me to do with them?”

More out of habit than to make a point, Bishop put a hand on
his semi-automatic and said, “I’m going to need you to split those rounds down
and then stack the finished product under the porch. Think you handle that?”

With the image of the driver’s corpse staining the road
crimson in his side vision, Elvis said nothing, accepting the job with a tilt
of his head.

“Good,” said Bishop. “It’s going to be a cold winter up here
... you finish splitting all the rounds and then we’ll sit down and have some
beers. After that you can turn in. I want you well rested because I’ve got big
plans for you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be ready,” lied Elvis. In fact, now more than ever he
wanted to bolt. He looked towards the north gate at the half-dozen guards
there. Then he watched the former Navy SEAL walk the length of the semi-truck,
crab between it and the tow truck and disappear from sight. Finally, shaking
his head and mired in a quicksand pool of indecision, Elvis took his seat on
the dozer and fired up the big diesel motor. There was a roar and thick exhaust
belched toward the blue sky. He spun a one-eighty in place, dropped the dozer’s
blade and with the clank of treads filling the air and another few hours of
backbreaking manual labor on the horizon, put his head down and started in on
the final half-dozen passes.

Chapter 16

In the rearview, Cade watched Brook and Wilson close the
distance to the truck. He opened the center console and retrieved a Big Box
store-sized bottle of 250 milligram Ibuprofen. Defeated the child safety
feature on the lid and then rattled three of the rust-colored pills into his
palm. He popped them into his mouth and swallowed, then chased them down with a
long pull off a bottled water. While stashing the pill bottle in the center
console, he looked into the rearview, met his daughter’s gaze and asked, “Were you
scared back there, Raven?”

Instantly, as she was prone to do, Sasha inserted herself
into the conversation. “Didn’t scare
me
a bit.”

Looking at her dad, Raven smiled and delivered a
conspiratorial wink. “I was a little scared,” she conceded.

“And that’s a good thing, sweetie. A little bit of fear
keeps us sharp. Too much and you’re prone to freezing up.” He looked over his
shoulder at the slender redhead still clutching her designer bags. “Can’t be
too brave, Sasha. Gotta find a happy medium for yourself.”

Knowing in a roundabout way that she had just been called
out, Sasha made no reply.

Taryn, however, parked her elbows on the seatback and asked
Cade how he kept his cool at the airport surrounded by all that death.

“Mind over matter. I put all the things I care about into a
vault in my mind and heart ... seal it up and forget about them until I’m safe
again. If you can’t wrap your mind around that, then try envisioning the Zs in
their underwear—”

“Most of them already are,” quipped Raven.

Shaking her head, Taryn said, “This is not the same as
getting over the fear of public speaking. Not even close. Those things wanted
to eat me ... Dickless, the Subway girl Karen.” She shuddered and whispered to
herself, “All of them.”

“Then pretend you’re on the set of a George Romero movie and
the dead are just extras wearing makeup.”

Sasha said, “Last time I checked you couldn’t shoot extras
in makeup for real.”

Ignoring this, Cade looked away. In the side mirror he saw
Brook nearing his door, a certain swagger in her step. He glanced right and
noticed Wilson in the other mirror, the Louisville Slugger held loose in one
hand, sweat-stained boonie hat riding low over his eyes. He returned his gaze
to Taryn and added, “Whatever works. But ultimately it’s up to you to find out
what that is ... or die trying.”

There was a loud bang on the sheet metal and the rear
passenger door hinged open. A beat later, Wilson tossed the bat in and with a
subtle air of confidence said, “Gate’s all locked up.”

Brook stepped onto the running board on the driver’s side
and performed a mini pull-up in order to see in. “Get your rifle, Raven. You’re
coming with.”

“Can I come?”

“Wouldn’t expect anything else from you, Taryn,” said Brook.

“Give me a second to get things sorted,” Cade said quietly to
Brook.

She made a face. Gave him a look he knew all too well. One
that said a lot without actually saying anything.

“I want to test the ankle in my new boots.”

“Better here than out there.”

“I knew you’d see it my way, honey,” he said with a wry
smile.

She smiled. Blew him a kiss and hopped down.

“
Max. Out
,” ordered Cade.

The Australian Shepherd’s claws rasped against the truck’s
bed as he launched to the asphalt. Landing on all fours, the brindle-furred
pooch performed a thorough recon of the truck’s exterior, sniffing the tires
and bumpers and undercarriage along the way. Stub for a tail chopping the air,
he looped under the lifted vehicle one time and then returned and sat outside
the driver’s door and regarded Cade with a dutiful look.

“Good boy.”

Max cocked his head. Shook his body expectantly.

“Sorry bud. Words will have to suffice until I can find you
some treats.”

Keying on the tone in Cade’s voice, Max turned and trotted
off towards the building where his female master and the youngsters were.

Cade reached across and grabbed the well-worn pair of size
nine leather boots that one of Beeson’s officers had procured for him. He
loosened the laces and, as an afterthought, punched the radio on and selected
the AM band and let the auto seek feature scan the spectrum.