Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (13 page)

Tuning out the hair-raising sounds of the remaining
creatures, Taryn held the pistol out butt first. “Six ... you’re at bat,
Casey.”

Wilson pushed off the ground and straightened up. Looking
down at Taryn, he cocked his head and shot her a bewildered look.

Still holding the pistol out like an offering, she said,
“The baseball universe does not revolve around your precious Mister Todd
Helton.”

“So who is this Casey?”

“Fictional character in a poem written by Ernest Thayer. You
know, Casey at the Bat?” She let the words hang but received only a dumb stare.
So she went on. “Casey is based on Mike Kelly who was the most expensive NL
player of his era ... nickname was King, if I remember the story right.”

The chain-link groaned under the weight of the dead.

Wilson finally took the Glock from her, pivoted to the side
with the silencer aimed groundward, and ejected the magazine. He counted the
remaining bullets. Saw that there were seven, plus the one in the chamber.
Eight chances to save face, Casey
. “And how much did this King guy get
paid?” he asked.

“Not much,” she said loudly to be heard over the hungry mob.
“But like a commodity or something, they sold him to Boston.”

“How much?”

“Ten thousand dollars.”

Looking over his shoulder, Wilson said, “That’s nothing
compared to Helton’s salary. How’d you learn all of this anyway?”

“If you haven’t figured it out yet, Wilson.” She stood on
her toes and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m a tomboy.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he said with a quick downward glance at
her lacy undergarment.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be sexy,” she said seductively.

There was an awkward silence as Wilson’s jaw slowly hinged
open.

After inspecting her tattooed arms for any wayward food
particulates or bodily fluids, and finding nothing substantial, she met
Wilson’s gaze, smiled, and said, “While you finish up here ... I’m getting a
shirt.”

Cheeks turning every shade of red, Wilson averted his eyes.
He turned on his heel and moved closer to the fence, determined to finish the
job she had started.

Chapter 20

The gray steel door between the retail offerings and the
garage swung open easily, but before Cade could react, hundreds—if not
thousands— of small black flies enveloped his head like a funeral veil. As
their burnished wings beat the air around him, the sickly sweet pong of death
assaulted his nose. Glock sweeping left, he quickly pushed through the buzzing
cloud and entered the sweltering garage.
Nothing to see.
So he spun a
swift one-eighty to his right and spotted the dead thing just as the door
settled against the rubber stop.

Curled up on the hard cement next to a pair of deep
stainless steel bowls, both licked clean to a high sheen, was the decomposing
remains of what Cade guessed had at one time been a seventy or eighty pound
dog. And judging by the wide set eyes and pronounced snout and wiry tufts of
rust-colored fur standing at attention along the jutting vertebrae, there was
no doubt in his mind that he was looking at all that remained of a dead Rhodesian
Ridgeback.
Great breed of dog
, he thought. In fact, he’d met a couple of
them at Bagram Air Base during his first swing through Afghanistan with the
75th Ranger Regiment. Capable animals. Smart and loyal to the end. But
unfortunately this one’s end had not been pleasant.

Once he had taken a couple of steps into the garage and the
eye-watering stench only got worse, he came to the conclusion that there was no
way this weeks old maggot-infested carcass, already nearly consumed by
thousands of wriggling fly larvae, could be solely responsible for the wall of
stink he’d just walked into.

So, fingers spread, he raised his free hand, signaling
silently to the others to stay where they were. Reaching back, he found the
knob by feel and shut the door. Then, breathing through his mouth, he skirted
around the front of the first bay. The lift was empty and the greasy
articulated arms that would normally support a vehicle were level to the floor
and splayed out over the work bay beneath them.

The next lift, however, was partially extended, its
dual-chromed pistons holding a white Ford 4x4 aloft, the running boards meeting
him about chest-high. And hanging off the fully extended long-travel suspension
were oversized off-road tires that looked hungry for desert terrain. Off the
top of his head, Cade guessed that the snazzy looking components had a foot of
travel in them at least. So far, so good. The rig was the closest thing he’d
seen capable of giving the F-650 a run for its money, and getting it down off
the lift would be one hell of a payoff for him not having to endure
two-hundred-plus miles of unchecked sibling rivalry.

Holstering the Glock, he motioned for Brook and the girls to
join him. A second later he sensed a change in the air pressure and Raven and
Sasha were lamenting the guard dog’s demise in appropriately hushed voices. As
their footsteps neared, he looped around the truck’s beefy brush guard looking
for some kind of a lever or switch; something obvious to throw that would
release the hydraulic pressure and lower the truck to the floor. Halfway around
the suspended truck, a low timbre moaning started up, setting the hair on his
arms at attention and freezing him mid-stride with most of his weight supported
on the sprained ankle and a sheen of sweat beading on his brow.

“Where is it?” hissed Brook, already with the M4 snugged
tight against her shoulder, moving in a low crouch and checking the shadowed
recesses under workbenches and behind stacked tires—any place she thought a
crawler might be lurking. Finding nothing, she stood up straight and peered
behind the tire mount-and-balance machine. “Nothing here,” she finally called
out.

“It’s coming from down there,” Cade stated, stabbing a
finger towards the darkened pit near his feet. He thumbed on his flashlight as
everyone crowded around the edge of the sunken work bay, Max included. The beam
chased away the shadow revealing an overall-clad first turn, its pallid face
staring up expectantly.

Still wearing blue coveralls with the name Kirk embroidered
over its left breast and a patch identical to the Mesa View 4x4 sign on the
opposite side, and still clutching a large socket wrench in one grease-stained
fist, the male first turn looked like it had died and reanimated doing what it
loved in life.

They watched in rapt silence for a few seconds as the dead
thing paced fore and aft, stopping for seconds at a time either to scrutinize a
hanging row of fan belts or bat at the colorful boxes of oil filters scattered
on a low shelf.

“What the heck is it doing?” asked Raven, her whisper
echoing in the bay.

But before Brook could formulate a vanilla answer to a sight
that was freaking the shit out of her, the zombie froze mid-stride, craned its
head upward and fixed its rheumy eyes on the fresh meat staring in on it. The
moaning began instantly and the creature grabbed a handful of the nylon safety
netting ringing the pit and looked to be figuring on a way to get at them.

“I’ll do it,” said Brook, bringing the M4 to her shoulder.

Shaking his head, Cade placed his hand on the carbine’s
picatinny rail and gently nudged it down. “No telling what kind of flammable
items are down there with it. Unless someone beams him up, Kirk is going
nowhere.”

Raven said, “How about we lower the truck over Kirk? That
way nobody will fall in and get eaten.”

“I have a better idea. Raven, you and Sasha go into the
showroom and find a pen and something to write on, and leave a warning on the
counter for anyone else who comes poking around in here.”

“I got it, Dad.”

“And Sasha ... why don’t you look for a set of keys with a
paper tag that says Ford or Raptor on it.”

Following a pace behind Raven, who was half a head shorter,
Sasha nodded and flashed him a thumbs up.

Brook lowered her rifle and fought hard against the urge to
follow the girls as they zippered around the far bay and disappeared into the
retail area.

“They are not your own little
special operators
, Cade
Grayson,” she said, facing him square on. “Personally, I think you are giving
our daughter
too
much rope.”

“Gotta see how much she’ll take and run with while we’re
still on the right side of the dirt.”

“That’s being a little grim.”

“I call it being realistic. We’re on our own now, Brook.
Beeson can’t come help us if we get into trouble. Hell, he alluded he would ...
even gave me the number to his sat phone ... but I’m not holding my breath.”

“What about your old team back at Schriever?”

“As far as Nash is concerned, I may as well already be dead.
Even though Robert Christian is dead and buried, the nukes he stole are still
unaccounted for. And right now, barring another mega horde coming out of Denver
or north from Pueblo, finding them is her number one priority.”

“More so than the anti-serum?” asked Brook.

“There’s no denying its importance. But right now, as low as
they are on personnel, Schriever is a sitting duck to whoever might want to pop
off a nuke right outside their gate.” He went silent for a moment, then,
arching a brow, added, “And that person wouldn’t even have to get within five
miles to wipe the place off the face of the earth. I could see no better reason
than that to get us out of there.”

Brook said nothing. Because deep down she knew that if Nash
called in the next second he would no doubt jump. And whether he’d ever admit
it or not, getting them out of harm’s way was his way of making amends for
leaving them behind while he deployed on the previous three missions.

“All we have now is family,” he said, jarring her train of
thought.

She met his gaze. Remained silent and looked towards the
open door and listened hard for any out-of-place sounds. “Just be careful with
what you ask Raven to do. She’s twelve ... not an eighteen-year-old Ranger
candidate.”

Making no reply, Cade looked down at Kirk. The monster
locked eyes with him, hissed and thrust its skeletal hands through the netting,
leaving traces of flesh and shiny fluids everywhere they touched.

“Done, Dad. What do you think?” Scampering over, Raven held
up a yellow sheet from a legal pad. Written in big block letters, mostly
colored in, was the warning:
DEAD INSIDE! ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!

“Very nice, sweetie.”

“What your mom said,” replied Cade. “Sweet and to the
point.” He grabbed a roll of black electrical tape. It was thin and easy enough
to tear. Handed it to Sasha. “Would you two please go and tape it to the front
door.”

Sasha traded Cade a set of keys for the roll of tape. “Found
them under the counter. Says Raptor on the alarm thingy ... strange name for a
truck.”

Cocking her head as if struck with a thought, Brook walked a
full circle around the white pick-up with undead Kirk watching and hissing the
entire time.

Watching her, Cade shrugged and asked, “What’s wrong?”

“It looks familiar ... only a different color. Still makes
me think of Carl, though.” She looked away and covertly swiped at the forming
tears.

Cade was about to confirm what he already knew when,
distracting him, a silhouette appeared in the doorway. “We’re done,” said
Wilson and Taryn nearly in unison. “But unfortunately there are a few more
coming in from the south. We should probably get,” said Taryn, finishing the
update for them both.

Taking charge, Cade said, “Wilson, I need you to make sure
the drain plug is still on the oil pan and then lower your new ride to the
floor. Be sure you steer clear of Kirk, though.”

“I’ll do it,” said Taryn, a measure of insistence to her
voice. “I know cars. Ginger here ... Mister Six Banger Lipstick Red Mustang
Owner ... does not.”

There was no protest from Wilson and, a couple of minutes
later, after tightrope walking around the truck, Taryn confirmed that Kirk had
either finished the oil change or hadn’t lived long enough after being bitten
to get started. After confirming that all of the appropriate drain plugs were
in place, and the fluids were sufficiently topped, meaning the Raptor was good
to go, Taryn found the manual hydraulic release valve which was mounted inside
the pit and just out of reach of Kirk’s slimy mitts. “Clear,” she said,
throwing the lever. There was a soft pneumatic hiss and the lift let the truck
down gently.

“Thing was giving me the heebs,” said Taryn as she opened
the door and climbed up into the lifted 4x4.

Cade watched her but made no reply.

Raven said, “Cool. She’s driving?”

“Keys please,” said Taryn, her upturned palm wavering near
Cade’s face.

Cade shrugged, limped close and handed the keys over without
giving it a second thought. “Looks like Wilson’s riding shotgun,” he said.

With a hangdog look on his face, Wilson edged past Cade.
“Looks like I’ll be getting the roller door then.”

Grateful there was no pushback from Wilson, Taryn jammed the
key in the ignition, more than eager to fire up the truck’s power plant.

While Taryn had been inspecting the truck, Cade had sent
Brook off to get some spare gas cans, extra Fix-A-Flat canisters, a few of
those vanilla-scented trees he’d spotted near the register, and whatever else
she deemed useful. Then, with all of the tasks delegated, he sat down next to
Max and closed his eyes.

Muttering under his breath, Wilson manually disengaged the
roller door’s drive mechanism, hinged over and took the length of frayed nylon
rope in both hands. He tensed his shoulders and was about to start the door on
an upward trajectory when Brook, who had just returned with an armload of
supplies, hollered an admonishment across the garage. “Wilson,” she said in a
matronly tone. “Lift with your knees.
Not
with your back.”