Dead Team Alpha: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (11 page)

Regulars, as the Teams call them, are Zs that refuse to leave a specific spot. They may go after prey, if it gets close enough, but only the scent of fresh blood will pull them from their chosen area. The two regulars Val recognizes each wear torn and tattered shorts and t-shirts
. One even has the remnants of a shredded straw hat stuck to its head. Val is pretty sure bodily fluids have glued the hat in place permanently.

“What do you think keeps them there?” Val asks, changing the subject from her foibles to something every Team loves to speculate about.

“That guy in the white shirt is looking for his puppy,” Junior says. “The thing got out and now he’s all torn up about it.”

“What the fuck do you know about puppies?” Duster asks. “You have never seen a live dog in your life.”

“I’ve read about them,” Junior says. “There’s like a million books where some kid loses his puppy. What the fuck was wrong with people pre-Z? How do you lose a puppy?”

“You can read?” Hawks asks Junior, her face completely serious.

“Fuck you,” Junior says.

“Junior has read everything,” Bobby says quietly. “
He’s checked out every book in the library at least twice.”

“More like three times,” Junior says as he takes a swig from his canteen. “
Except for those self-help books. What the fuck are those about? People didn’t know how to help themselves?”

“Or keep from losing puppies,” Alastair says.
“Am I right?”

“Yeah, no wonder they all fuckin
g died when Z-Day hit,” Junior laughs. “Puppy losing self-helpless fucks.”

“Hey,” TL Lafferty snaps. “Respect for the dead.”

“Sorry, sir,” Junior says. “Every person counts.”

“We always remember
,” the rest say together.

They all grow quiet, each lost in their personal thoughts,
all eyes studying their surroundings, ever prepared for danger. Then as one, they stand and stretch, lift their packs, and walk back to the road. Fifteen minutes are up.

“A good pace,” TL Lafferty says to Bobby and Diaz. She looks up at the sun. “I want to be at the locale before sundown.”

“Yes, sir,” the two men respond.

They set out at a brisk
jog and the others fall into formation, eyes sharp, and carbines ready. It’s an uneventful march.

They watch the trolleys go up and down the mountain across the Turnpike. They pass the switching stations where trolleys are unhooked from one winching rig and hooked to the other so they can continue their journey.

Even the Zs cooperate, and for the most part, leave them alone. A couple groups come at them here and there, but nothing they can’t dispatch with a few suppressed shots to heads. Shell casings are carefully gathered after each attack and they move on, ready to hit their endpoint.

But that’s the
deceptive ease of the Turnpike. It lulls people into a false sense of security. It’s a whole other world once they start to penetrate the sprawling wasteland of Denver proper.

“Bobby? How much daylight we have left?” TL Lafferty asks quietly.

The Team is in the thick of Westminster, moving slowly from building to building along Sheridan Boulevard. Every possible loose item on their bodies is taped down, strapped down, secured. A stray jingle or jangle at the wrong moment could send a horde right at them. The whole point of going from melee weapons to firearms was to put distance between the Zs and the Teams. The best way to do that is not to engage at all.

“Three
hours, tops,” Bobby whispers.

He holds his hand up and everyone stops. They wait. They listen. He lowers his hand and they move.

“Plan stays,” TL Lafferty says. “We hump it to Yale Avenue and over to Federal. We’ll hunker down in the Bell Tower on CHU and rendezvous with our new Runner. First light, we work our way over to Bear Valley, clear the Zs and secure the buildings.”

She looks
at her Team and one by one, they nod.

The march continues, painfully slow to those not used to the careful pace of the Teams. Every step, every head turn, every single blink is carefully thought through. Turn your head too far to the right and you lose sight of your left side. Your Mate may have you covered, but maybe they blink wrong. Then it’s over. So the Team moves with great deliberation.

Diaz is next to bring the Team to a halt. He closes his fist, then quickly points a finger to the left and then to the right. He gives a wave and starts to back away from the corner of Sheridan and West Florida Ave. The Team all know to find cover. They duck into doorways, squat behind bushes, hide close to the shells of scorched cars.

Up ahead, quickly filling the
intersection is a horde of Zs. Val does a quick estimation and comes up with close to sixty of the things shambling down the road, their eyes pointed west as they trudge along West Florida Avenue.

Close to five minutes goes by after the horde passes before Diaz gives the sign to move out. The Team gets up to the intersection and looks east. Their hearts climb into their throats.

“Fuck,” Duster hisses. “Herd.”

Far down the street,
about half a mile, the pavement is covered from sidewalk to sidewalk with Zs. They can’t see the end, just a vast sea of rotted flesh walking slowly towards them.

“Move,” TL Lafferty says. “We have space.”

Bobby and Diaz set the pace at a fast jog. They get into a rhythm of sprinting from one end of a block to the other. They check the corners, dash across the open intersection, then sprint to the next one. This pattern is repeated until they hit West Yale Avenue.

Turning left, the Team comes face to face with the southern edge
another herd.

“Fuck me,” Alastair whispers. “Haven’t seen one this big in
a while.”

“Cut through the neighborhoods?” Bobby asks TL Lafferty.

“Only way not to bring the herd down on us,” TL Lafferty replies. “Just a couple miles to go. Watch each other. You all know the dangers of cutting through yards.”

They do. Too many Team M
ates have been lost over the years because they didn’t see the toddler Z half buried in a long forgotten sandbox or the undead housewife hiding in the shadows of her once prized greenhouse. The abandoned backyards of suburbia are almost as deadly as a roaming herd if a Mate loses focus.

South Zurich is their detour route until they get to West Amherst Avenue. It becomes a game of hide and seek as the Team goes from lot to lot, cutting through yards and crossing over decks and patios into the next lot, avoiding the smattering of Zs that stumble along the weed choked pavement of the long dead
residential arteries of Denver.

Loretto Heights Park is in sight when DTA hits a wall. A wall made of undead.

“What are they doing?” Tiny D asks, her voice barely more audible than the wind.

Close to two hundred Zs fill the main field of the park, their heads tilted and looking up at a row of fir trees.

Diaz looks at TL Lafferty, his eyebrows raised, conveying the question, “Do we go around?”

TL Lafferty shakes her head and nods at the herd. She points at Duster and Clank and then at the fir trees. They nod their understanding
and crouch walk their way closer. The Team waits back in the shadows of two hundred-year old oak trees. Their eyes follow every step that Duster and Clank take.

The herd of Zs takes zero notice of the encroaching Mates
. Their attention is solely on the fir trees. Duster stops a couple dozen yards from the Zs and lies down in the tall grass, Clank right behind him. They both take out their binoculars and scan the fir trees, systematically looking up one then down the other, trying to find the source of the Zs’ interest.

Clank gives an almost imperceptibl
e grunt, sounding just like a Z. Duster glances over at him, gauges the direction he’s looking, and starts searching. About six trees in, halfway up, they see movement. They share a look, hold out their hands, and quickly settle things with Rock, Paper, Scissors.

Clank glares as his rock loses to Duster’s paper. The man takes a deep breath, secures his M-4 to his back, and stands up. He puts his fingers to his mouth and lets loose with an ear piercing whistle.

The Zs all turn slowly towards the sound.

“Hungry, ya cunts?” Clank asks, folding his arms over his chest. “You’re looking at one fine piece of tasty people meat, fuckers.”

There are loud hisses and snarls and the herd moves towards him. Clank nods, looks down at Duster hiding in the grass, and gives him the finger. Then he takes off running right at the herd. When he’s less than six feet from the front, he turns and sprints as fast as he can down the line. Zs reach out, but their hands fall just inches short of the taunting meal before them.

Close to ninety percent of the herd takes the bait and follows Clank, lea
ving about twenty stragglers for Duster to clear out. He gets to a knee, takes aim, and empties his magazine, the quiet cough of his suppressor sounding like farts in the wind. He quickly reloads and drops the last Zs before the rest of DTA come sprinting across the field towards the fir trees. Duster gathers each empty shell, counting the brass casings, before he joins his Team.

“What do we have?” TL Lafferty asks.

“A survy,” Duster points. “Looks like they got themselves treed.”

“How’
d they get in here?” Junior asks. “A sentry or Runner would have seen them at some point. Why didn’t the dipshit go to a station and ask for help?”

“All good questions,” T
L Lafferty replies. “And only the survy can answer.” She looks her Team over. “Hawks? I’ve been told you have a way with tree climbing. That true?”

“Here,” Hawks says in response and hands Alastair her M-4 and pack. “I’m on it.”

She runs and jumps at the trunk of the giant fir, gripping onto the rough bark, and scurries her way up to the first branch.

“Jesus,” Tiny D laughs. “Woman knows how to scale a tree.”

“All in the holds,” Diaz says. “I used to do it as a kid before my hands and feet got too big. You learn to read the bark, find the wedges.”

“Huh,” Tiny D says. “Don’t like heights so I never tried.”

Hawks makes it to two branches below the survy and stops. She watches the person hug the trunk and studies the form. Covered in dirt and blood crusted rags, the figure is shaking with fear.

“Hey,” Hawks says. “What are you doing there? Kinda got yourself stuck, didn’t you?”

The person shakes even harder and Hawks watches a warm trickle of piss weave its way down the bark. She scoots away from the trunk a little, letting the piss flow past.

“It’s cool,” Hawks says soothingly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m with Denver Team Alpha. Do you know what the Teams are? We help
survies, uh, I mean survivors. Every person counts with us. I’m not here to harm you. I’m here to help get you down so we can keep you safe.”

There’s no response except for an increase in the shaking and a small sob.

“Can you look at me, at least?” Hawks asks. “Just show me your face, okay?”

The person doesn’t respond.

“Listen,” Hawks says, “I’m coming up, okay? Just to get a little closer so I can see how badly you’re hurt.”

“NO!” the person screams.

A young boy. Hawks can tell in an instant from the voice.

“Like I said,” Hawks responds. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“NO!” the boy screams. “Stay back!”

Hawks can hear TL Lafferty hissing from below. The boy’s being too loud and it’ll draw the Zs back.

“Are you hungry?” Hawks asks. She digs into a pouch on her vest she wears and pulls out a hunk of jerky. “You like jerky? It’s goat, but still good. My mother crushes wild blueberries and puts them in the cure before smoking it. Tastes great.” She takes a nibble. “So good. Want some?”

Hawks climbs just a little closer and waves the jerky towards the boy.

Even with the overpowering scent of fir pitch around them, the jerky smell wafts to the boy’s nose and he slowly turns his head and looks at Hawks. She tries not to cry out.

The boy h
as no eyes. Instead, only scab rimmed holes are left.

“Jesus,” she mutters.

The boy smiles and it sends shivers up Hawks’ spine. “I’m a born Code Monkey. We’re trained to survive. But that does smell good.”

“A code…monkey?” Hawks asks. “What’s
that?”

The boy’s nose twitches and he tilts his head towards Hawks.

“Can I have some of that jerky?” the boy asks. “Does smell good, yep.” His stomach rumbles and he frowns.

“Yeah, sure,” Hawks says. “But how about we get you outta this tree first, okay? Then you can have all the jerky in
my pockets and tell me what a code monkey is.”

“There’s zeds down there,” the boy says, shaking his
head. “Too many for just me. Can’t go down there. No way, Jose.”

“My Team has them cleared out,” Hawks says. “But not for long. There’s a good sized herd in the area so we need to move now. We’re only a quarter mile from a Runner station in the Bell Tower. You’ll be safe there.”