DEAD: Darkness Before Dawn (36 page)

Turning back to the complex, I brought my binoculars up and scanned the area. Nothing. Not a single thing stirred down there.
Perhaps the child zombies had in fact moved on
, I tried to tell myself. I did not believe that for one instant. Something in my gut told me that they were down there…waiting.

***

Morning had not yet arrived, but we broke camp, policed the area, and then moved down the hill. The day would be much like yesterday. Rain. Glad I don’t believe in omens.

“Everybody pair up,” the woman barked. I’d heard folks call her Jessie. “My team will stay with the brainiacs. Frank, you and the new guy will secure the green building entry.
Gail says that a herd of a few thousand is just up the road, so only use your firearms as a last resort. And when I mean last resort, I mean the bullet you are eating after being bit. We can’t have that swarm come down on us while we are inside the complex.”

At least now I knew what my job would be. When I’d been on watch, I’d noticed that there were three buildings apart
from the rest. One was blue, one was black, and one was green. I had no idea why and didn’t think I would ever find out. Still, at least it felt good to have a job.

When all the assignments had been given, we started down. Not ten seconds later, I heard a baby cry followed by a low moan. What really gave me a chill was that they came
from opposite sides of us, and I would swear that it was one zombie signaling another.

I heard Frank start to mutter a prayer. I kept mine quiet, but I sent a message to whatever being was in charge that was bas
ically just a request: please don’t let me be eaten.

As we reache
d the mostly vacant parking lot, the light was now enough that you could see pretty good except for the more heavily shadowed nooks and covered areas that you didn’t want to go inside anyway.

Frank and I peeled
off, as did others while the team ventured into the area and everybody took their positions. I glanced at Frank and saw how wide his eyes were. This guy was freaking terrified. That meant that I would need to be extra careful. Somebody that afraid was a danger.

Another moan came from some high grass to the south of the green building. I stopped and actually had to grab Frank’s arm. If I’d let him continue walking, he might have kept going all the way until he was right in the middle of what I could only
describe as a trap.

We’d had to move down a covered walkway that spanned between our target building and the blue one. There were a few side entrances; unremarkable with one exception. The lower panes of the glass door on the four that I could see had been busted out. That exposed our right side. On the left was a cluster of cargo containers like the kind that get stacked on trains or the deck of cargo ships. The doors
looked
shut; but a sliver of black gave away that they were not. Up ahead was the entrance to the green building. The awning that covered the entrance was about five feet from the end of the covered walkway. I counted five sets of legs standing on that ledge. I did not want to look over my shoulder, but I had to guess that we’d missed something and that there would be zombie children waiting. I could feel the hair on the back of my neck standing straight up.

“Umm…I think we’re surrounded,” I stated the obvious.

Frank spun around and took three involuntary steps back; effectively moving towards the end of the overhang and that empty space that would expose him to the zombie children on the awning. Now that he’d turned around, I could not help myself. I glanced over my shoulder. Sure enough, five zombie children between the ages of maybe eight and twelve stood in the walkway that we’d travelled along between the two buildings.

“I knew they’d
still be here,” Frank breathed.

I think I now realized a further reason why nobody had wanted to get to know me. I was willing to bet that this was the same place they’d sent that other poor bastard. As for what they had against Frank, maybe he’d drawn a short straw or som
ething.

I had my eyes fixed on the entry to that green building.
What the hell was so important about it that we needed to secure it in the first place? I thought I saw some movement further back in what was probably some sort of lobby. I could see the feet shuffling around up on that awning. If I had to guess, I was willing to bet that the zombies up there were getting ready to drop on whatever came in to view. We could use our crossbows, but they take time to reload and the farthest zombie was less than fifty feet away. We might get a couple, but we were surrounded by a dozen or more by my guess. We needed to be someplace more defensible. I did the only thing that I could think of…

“Frank, RUN!” I yelled, bolting for the entry of the green building.

Just as with the other doors that I’d noticed—albeit too late—the lower section of glass was missing. I would only be out from under the canopy of the walkway for a second before returning to the relative safety of the awning over that main entrance. I was counting on poor coordination and reaction time.
Please don’t all be former world champion video gamers
, I thought in that instant of open air overhead.

Diving forward, I slid on my belly through little cubes of broken glass. I had my KA-BAR out as I rolled once and came up to my knees. I was hoping to clear room for Frank…and then he screamed.

I only had a second to glance and see him go down under a swarm of children. Looking around, I saw that I was in fact in a large open lobby. There was a big reception desk and a wall of dead monitors behind it. A pair of windmill propellers hung from cables in the center of the big reception area and stairs went up to the second level on either side. Two dark hallways suddenly vomited zombie children like the doors to a school on that last day when the bell rings and summer vacation is about to begin.

There were at least five floors to this building, but I i
magine that the elevator was used back when there was power. A fire escape existed someplace, but I didn’t have time to search for it.

I suddenly remembered the
Call of Duty: Black Ops
video game and that first room you start in with the stairs that go up each side in the zombie mode. One of the best defenses is to lure them to a single stairwell and take out a few of the leaders. Then, you take off and run around to and down the other stairs, cross the room and now you are at the trail end of the zombies on the stairs. You take out a few, and then zip back, up and across to the top of the original staircase with the stupid zombies stumbling over each other as they try to turn around again. You take out a few…repeat as necessary.

Frank’s screaming grew in volume and intensity, but it was the begging that hurt my heart. He was pleading for them to stop…trying to reason with them to no avail. A loud shriek fo
llowed by a gagging gargle ended it.

I decided that I had nothing to lose. However,
unlike the others, I would not die with a belt pouch full of unused magazines for my weapons. I would worry about this supposed herd later. I slung the M4 from my shoulder and brought it up. I was mildly surprised when a few of the zombie children stopped advancing. Still, more came than didn’t and I squeezed the trigger sending a short burst. My aim sucked and I saw holes appear across the chests of a few of the leaders. I adjusted and fired again. This time I took down the first two I aimed at and blew out the throat of a third.

It was time to see if I could pull off my video game defense. I sprinted for the stairs. I was halfway up when my heart felt like it exploded in my chest. I almost fell on my face from stopping so suddenly. They must have played the same game. At the top of the stairs, at least twenty faces appeared from the shadows.

I was screwed.

Dakota

By Todd Brown

Chapter 1

Seattle, Washington
—Dakota wiped the rain from his eyes and ran a hand through the three days of growth that cast a shadow across his face. Inhaling deeply, Dakota sucked in an enormous blast of the cold, damp, morning air. The briskness succored his senses into fully awakening. He blinked a few times to clear his vision, although he couldn’t have dozed off for more than fifteen minutes. 
What I wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee
, Dakota thought. Cold, dirty, and decaffeinated was no way to be at five o’clock in the bright and early. Glancing around, he corrected himself. It was dark and early.

Mornings like this personified everything that he loved about this city. Seattle, the Emerald City, where coffee was i
ngested more often than water. How you drank it, the brand, even the type of coffee-maker, were more important than the type of car you drove.  Seattle, a city in which a convenient stretch of cloudy summer days proved ideal for scaring away visiting out-of-state types. More importantly, it kept most of those sun-loving Californians away. Those erratic summer storms were usually enough to do the trick. And if those occasionally sunless July days didn’t do it, the nearly constant chill from November to April sent them back to their places of origin where they would spin horrific tales of a dreary place, tucked back in the ominous woods. They would rant incessantly about a bunch of flannel-wearing, grunge rocking, caffeine freaks.  That suited Dakota just fine.

Peering out from his place in the alley, Dakota felt that familiar and welcome tinge of excitement. Not, he i
magined, too unlike that of the tiger waiting in the reeds of a water hole. This was Dakota’s water hole, the city of Seattle.

At first glance, Dakota looked like any other vagrant that hung around the fringe of Seattle’s City Center: dirty brown hair matted to his head, a tattered bandanna holding the damp locks out of his eyes. He wore an oil-stained field jacket that had been some shade of green at one time. It served not only to keep away the chilly morning air, but also managed to conceal his bulky frame. Closer inspe
ction would reveal that Dakota possessed a rather muscular build. His height of just over six feet tall was masked by the way he now stood, slouched over and leaning against the alley wall. The intimation of a beard, along with the grime that smudged his face, only increased his likelihood of being mistaken for a vagrant.

However, if someone took a closer look, the eyes would give him away. That was unlikely considering that most people preferred to ignore one of the nation’s most tro
ubling epidemics. What they would see in those blazing amber eyes would belie the usually sad, sometimes angry, often empty gaze of the archetypal pan-handler. That emptiness was supplanted by a look of intensity that, at times, seemed to bore through your very soul. The compassion in those same eyes could cause you to expose your innermost thoughts. There was no trace of the bloodshot look of a wino. Instead, these eyes were crystal clear.

Dakota Cameron Riley was no pan-handler, nor was he homeless. He was an agent of the Seattle Narcotics Inve
stigative Agency, under the direct supervision of the DEA; a division that he had belonged to for the past seven years.

After a three year stint in the United States Air Force as a military police officer, Dakota had returned home. Home was a modest two bedroom rambler in Des Moines, Washington, a suburb of S
eattle. Using his service acquired G.I. Bill, he put himself through college. By sustaining a perfect grade-point-average, he had no problem gaining an appointment to the Police Academy.

Upon completion of his training, he was quickly recrui
ted by the Des Moines Police Department. Hometown boy joins the local force made for good public relations. That was, until he issued his first citation…then he was just another cop.

Speeding tickets, along with the occasional DUI, quickly lost their thrill for him, and he soon settled into the daily grind of a police officer. September 18, 1990 would be the day that brought an abrupt halt to his ordinary life. On that day, a new door opened and Dakota stepped through it.

Dakota sat in his squad car as usual. He waited patiently for anyone who chose to exceed the posted speed limit of thirty-five miles per hour. He set up in a small cul-de-sac facing outward with his engine running. This position allowed him to monitor cars that came down the main access road to the local marina.

He smiled to himself as various cars would enter the dip in the hill that prevented his being noticed until the veh
icle was almost on top of him. His radar gun led would read “40...37...32.” Several cars passed, each one slowing as he became visible to the driver.

Ten minutes into his vigil, it happened, a car roared past. The driver seemed oblivious to his midnight-blue squad car. A small beep emitted from the radar gun. The display flashed “63”!

Dakota slipped his car into gear and rolled out in pursuit. Reaching over, he flipped on his lights and was unprepared for the driver’s response. Instead of slowing, the car accelerated and began to pull away. Dakota reached for his mike as he gunned the engine to give chase.

“Dispatch, this is Riley,” he said, trying to conceal his excitement. “I am in pursuit of a highspeed perp moving west on one-three-two. We are approaching First Avenue, request bac
kup.”

Before dispatch could respond, the car shot into the inte
rsection against a red light and promptly smashed into a city bus.

The driver of the car turned out to be in po
ssession of an entire kilo of pure cocaine. Dakota made the bust that resulted in a commendation, along with a great deal of praise from his commander.

The office of the Des Moines Police Department now housed its first real major felon in its tiny cell. The felon’s name was Mark Sherman, a known drug dealer, currently wanted by the local DEA affiliate for suspected involvement with a major drug trafficking operation currently under investigation by the S
eattle Drug Task Force.

The day before Mr. Sherman was to be transferred to the King County Jail where he would stand trial, four men paid him an unscheduled visit. The lone security camera showed the four men in ski masks burst in and gun down the duty officer that sat at his desk. They proceeded to Mark Sherman’s holding cell and shot him in the head...five times.

It was quickly assumed that word had gotten out that Sherman was going to testify. He had readily expressed knowledge that he could identify the major players of the drug ring in question. A drug operation that used Seattle as a distribution hub running from Vancouver, Canada to San Diego, California.

In exchange for his testimony, Sherman was to have r
eceived immunity from prosecution. In addition, he would’ve been given a new identity and then covertly relocated to another city. He moved to Sky View Estates Cemetery instead.

Dakota received an invitation to assist the Seattle Drug Task Force in its investigation. During that time, he quickly i
mpressed Captain Matt Bell. Bell held the position of not only liaison between the Seattle Drug Task Force and the DEA, but commander of the task force as well.

Although none of the assassins were apprehended, a complete search of the Sherman residence by Dakota yielded some more useful i
ntelligence. A major shipment of heroin was being transported To Seattle from San Diego. Its ultimate destination was Vancouver, Canada. The street value had an estimate of just over eight million dollars.

Dakota assisted the men of the Seattle Drug Task Force with the bust. His performance in that raid prompted Captain Bell to recommend that D
akota turn in his citation pad. “You seem more suited to busting some real bad guys,” Bell suggested.

With a few phone calls, the arrangement was made. D
akota put his patrolman uniform in mothballs and became a
Suit
.  Four years as a speed-trap cop was over, he became an official undercover detective on November 21, 1990.

The next three years were the fastest in his life. He was paired up with a senior detective by the name of Derrick Rider. Rider, a seven year ve
teran of the war on drugs, proved to be a superb mentor. Dakota quickly learned that undercover work wasn’t the thrill-a-minute, shoot ‘em up lifestyle depicted in movies.

If Derrick was an excellent teacher, Dakota established himself as an even more ambitious st
udent. It took almost no time for a solid bond to develop between the two. Their relationship extended beyond just work. The pair spent many of their off hours together forming a connection stronger than any friendship the two had ever experienced before. When Derrick married his child-hood sweetheart, it was Dakota who stood at his side as best man. Throughout it all, they never ceased in their relentless investigation of the drug ring known on the streets as San-Sea-Ca. It became their obsession to bring the organization down. 

In February of 1995, a routine drug raid netted add
itional information involving alleged personnel of the San-Sea-Ca organization.

This time, Derrick and Dakota vowed not to let the prize slip through their grasp.  Leading a strike team, they went after every name on their list.  Time after time it seemed that the bad guys stayed one step ahead.

Finally, the break they needed was at hand.  They were called in when a routine traffic stop yielded a man named Victor Nonsa.  The unit pulling Nonsa’s car over was a K-9 unit.  The dash mounted camera caught it all as the officer approached the vehicle.  Suddenly the occupant, Nonsa, slams the door into the officer and leaps from his car as if to run.  Then a blur darts from the area of the squad car.  Brutus, the trained police dog, had his jaws clamped around the fleeing suspect’s throat awaiting his partner’s arrival.

A little questioning was like pulling the arm on a slot machine and lining up the cherries.  Enough packaged drugs were found in the car to send Nonsa away for the rest of his formative years.  He quickly gave up working for San-Sea-CA and just wanted out from under the organ
ization’s thumb.

He claimed not to know much more than the person i
mmediately above him, who he revealed as Marty Pennington, owner of the Pennington Motor Group.  He did however know one key element of the current supply load, it would be coming from Canada.

When lab results came back on the drugs confiscated in the bust the initial guess that they were dealing with a heavy meth distrib
utor took a slight twist.  This meth was cut with a potent hallucinogen that packed a much stronger rush than standard crank. The twist was that it eventually mellowed into euphoria akin to LSD. In a short period of time, it became the choice in Seattle’s many Techno-Rave clubs. It also gained immense popularity with the social elite. Plain and simple, this stuff was bad news.

So far, nobody actually knew just how this stuff arrived in the Emerald City. To date the Canadian and American Border Guards had yielded a big fat zero in their attempts to make any Sort of bust. The only consistent fact was that the ‘White Rager’ only arrived for distr
ibution to its dealers twice a month. This increased its appeal as a hot commodity.

More strong-arm interrogation of Nonsa resulted in a few additional pieces to the puzzle. First, deliveries were a
lways on Thursdays. Second and more essential to tying their leads together, delivery was always made by the same man, a man whom Nonsa easily identified as Brian Sherman, brother of the late Mark Sherman. Third and the icing on the cake, Sherman always arrived in the same vehicle, a HumVee.

With all the miles of heavily forested and mountainous terrain, it would be impossible to monitor a single vehicle with the capabilities of handling rough terrain like the Hu
mmer. Any attempt at single-unit surveillance would be too simple to detect and likely be unable to manage the trip in any case.

After a few hours of brainstorming, Dakota and De
rrick devised a plan that, while a bit extreme, was doable. The plan would need the varied components of a Piper single prop airplane and a helicopter in addition to the unmarked cars for city driving. After some heavy convincing by both Dakota and Derrick, Captain Bell gave the approval.  Negotiations were made with Canadian officials, and the plan was set in motion.

***

Anticipation grew as the first Tuesday arrived after a
ffirmation had been given by the Canadian government. A team set up to observe Sherman as he left the Pennington Lot in his Hummer. Once the word had been relayed, the helicopter picked up the trail. It maintained a visual on the Hummer, reporting regularly the location via secured-channel radio communications. Once outside the more densely traveled areas, the clandestine pursuit became the responsibility of a series of unmarked cars. The unmarked cars maintained contact on the ground until Sherman exited the Interstate.

From there, Sherman utilized a s
eries of back roads as he wove his way towards the border. Eventually he turned off anything resembling a road and made for the foothills and forests that gave the Northwest its idyllic beauty. That was where the Piper took over surveillance. The Piper held contact for this leg until the Hummer slipped back onto a major thoroughfare inside Canada. At that point, the Piper peeled off so that it could refuel. The unmarked cars led by Derrick and Dakota picked up the trail from there.