Dead Team Alpha: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller (21 page)

The bandage is instantly soaked through with blood, but Alastair keeps working, getting it all the way around her leg and tying it tight. He reaches up and checks her pulse, but it is slow and barely there. Then after a few
seconds, it stops altogether. The woman slumps over and her shirt raises up just enough for Alastair to see the bottom scars on her back.

“Help me get her shirt off,” he says to Diaz.

“Seriously?” Diaz asks. “Dude, we have more important things to do, like getting the fuck to the Bell Tower, than you getting your jollies off with a dead chick’s tits.”

“No, you sick fuck,” Alastair says. “I want to see her back. Give me a hand, she’s fucking dead weight.”

“Fine, fine,” Diaz says and slings his carbine. He kneels next to Alastair and helps roll the woman over, pulling her shirt up over her head. “Ah, Jesus, look at that shit. Same as the kid and that other woman.”

Alastair reaches into a side pocket on his pack and pulls out a pad of rough paper held together with twine. He fishes out a thin piece of charcoal and starts to sketch. Diaz begins to make a
smart-ass remark about wanting a pic for later, but sees what Alastair is doing and decides to let it drop. He gets back up and resumes his position, keeping his eye on the golf course that surrounds them, watchful of movement whether Z or human.

He has to start over twice, wasting precious paper, but he finally gets a good
facsimile of the markings sketched. His eyes study the sketch, trying to decipher what they mean, but he can’t make heads or tails of it. Row after row of circles, some burned into the skin while others are slightly raised scars, looking like they are in groups of six.

“Can we go now?” Diaz asks.

“Yeah,” Alastair nods, making sure the charcoal won’t smear then puts the pad back into his pack. “We’re close, right?”

Diaz points to the second half of the golf course. “Across th
ere and then through that thing called a trailer park and we’ll be at South Federal. Only a couple miles to the Bell Tower after that.”

“Good,” Alastair says. “Hopefully we won’t be the only ones. I didn’t like the sound of that Final Destruction shit.”

Diaz shrugs. “Not something we aren’t used to,” he says, waving his hand at the world around them. “I’m pretty sure we’re already in the thick of it, but just don’t know it.”

“As much as I admire the fatalism in the face of danger,” Alastair says
, “I think she meant something else.”

“Well, we can worry about that when we’re safe inside the Bell Tower,” Diaz says. “Right
now, we need to worry about getting there.”

“Hold on,” Alastair says as he pulls his knife and plunges it into the base of the woman’s skull. “Wouldn’t want her coming back, now would we?”

***

“Hold up,” Duster says, staggering against the side of a fallen water tower. The sun has risen high enough to warm the metal and he places his forehead
against it, feeling the soothing heat. “I gotta rest.”

Tiny D comes back to
him, having gotten quite a few feet ahead. She looks him up and down, noting the much wider spread of blood that has stained his uniform.

“Zuni Street is just right there,” Tiny D nods. “A few blocks and we’ll be at
Federal, then it’s home free to the Bell Tower, Dust. Suck it up and let’s move.”

She looks back the way they came and frowns at the line of Zs following. Those few not rounded up and enlisted in the mega-herds quickly discovered the trail of blood droplets D
uster has been leaving in his wake.

“We stay here and they’ll catch up,” Tiny D says. “And with how slow you’re
moving, we can’t stay ahead of them for long.”

“Sorry, TD,” D
uster gasps as his fingers probe the wound. “I thought I was cool, but that last skirmish with those fucking Z kids must have ripped something. I can feel the wound tearing more with each step.”

“Fuck that,” Tiny D says as she grabs his arm and drapes it across her shoulders. “You’re DTA, bitch. A little tearing wound can’t
stop us, right? Just a mile. One mile and we’ll stitch you right up.”

“You suck,” D
uster says as he leans against her. “I’ll pay you back for this, man.”

“Yeah, you will,” Tiny D laughs. “Because you’ll owe me, bitch. Big time.”

“You should just leave me, ya know,” Duster says. “This shit is bad, I can tell. You can’t patch me up, TD. I’m bleeding too much.”

“
Shut the fuck up and walk,” Tiny D says. “Keep your eyes on the shadows. We’re gonna cross Zuni and then we’ll be back in the neighborhoods. Probably still Zs hanging out.”

“Or more of those crazy fucks,” Duster says, stumbling along with Tiny D’s assistance.
“More reasons to ditch my ass. No need for you to die too, TD.”

“No one’s fucking dying, crybaby,” Tiny D says as the
y reach Zuni Street.

She doesn’t like the open space they have to cross to get to the cover of the trees and houses on the other side, but there’s nothing she can do. So, with M-4 in one hand, and the other clamped around Duster’s waist, she helps him hobble along, turning her head left then right, watching, scoping, searching for any sign of trouble.

They get to the other side of the street and she lets Duster collapse under a huge fir tree.

“One minute,” she says. “Catch your breath while I scout ahead a little. I’ll be back in sixty seconds, cool?”

He gives her a thumbs up and pats his M-4 that’s draped across his thighs. She frowns, nods, and then hurries off around the house the fir tree stands by. She watches her corner and sprints to the next house, waiting for a sign that they are being observed by anything. While it is highly unlikely, there is always the chance of a stray cannibal or bit of wasteland trash that’s made their way into the city and holed up. With the way the past couple of days have gone, Tiny D isn’t assuming anything.

Zs, cannies, trash, or blind crazy fucks, she’s ready.

She gets a few houses down and feels secure enough that the block is empty. Doubling back, she rounds the corner of the house to find the group of Zs following them has made some progress and is in the middle of Zuni.

“Dust, no more resting,” she says, setting her carbine to the side so she can get his arm across her shoulders again. “Stop slacking and give me a little help here, will ya?”

She squats and tries to get him to cooperate, but his arm just falls back to his side.

“Dust?” she asks, studying his face. His features are completely slack and she reaches out, placing her fingers
to his neck.

No pulse.

“God dammit, Dust,” she says. “You fucking pussy. How can you quit on me like that?”

She closes her eyes and mouths a quick prayer before standing and retrieving her carbine. She pulls a knife and looks at it then at her carbine. She’d rather not waste a
round, since she’s low on ammo, but she doesn’t want to stab him in the skull with her knife, stilling him like a common Z. He’s DTA and deserves to be sent off like a soldier, not like one of the shuffling monsters coming towards her.

Tiny D looks over at the group of Zs that are only a few yards away. The one in front died young
. It’s obvious from his height and the strips of rags that hang from his body. Some cartoon print is just visible on the remnants of his t-shirt. The woman behind him was important somehow, Tiny D surmises, looking at the shoes she’s wearing. In all the books, she’s read, and the faded magazine photos she’s seen, important women always wear shoes with heels. Although this woman is missing a heel and so is most of the left side of her body.

“Time to go,” Tiny D says to herself and turns back to Duster’s corpse.

His hand whips out as she starts to take aim with her carbine, and she finds her left leg yanked out from under her. Falling back onto her ass, the thing that was once Duster grabs her ankles and pulls her to him. Freshly turned, the strength of his muscles is not only still present, but somehow increased. She tries to break free of his grip, but no matter how hard she kicks, his hands are like manacles, shackling her to him.

“Duster!” she screams. “No! Think! You’re in there somewhere!”

It’s a ploy that has worked before. Scream the name of a freshly turned Z and about half of them pause, as if an echo of who they were remembers what they were once called.

However,
it doesn’t work with Duster. He keeps pulling, bringing her closer as he gets onto his knees and shuffles forward, his bulk leaning over her body. His mouth opens wide and he brings his head down, right for Tiny D’s belly. His teeth hit the material of her uniform, but they can’t penetrate the specialized material. Enraged at not getting the meal he so hungers for, Duster lets go of her legs so his hands can claw at her uniform.

Legs free, Tiny D brings her knees up and under Duster. The man is larger than her, and is officially nothing but dead weight, but she is
able to flex her legs and lift the back end of him up, giving her enough leverage to twist and dump him to the side. He snarls at her, suddenly finding his meal no longer within his grasp, and reaches out, his fingers snagging the braided hair on her head.

She whips h
er head back and the braids slice through his hand, the steel barbs at the ends shredding his fingers, flaying the flesh open. Her right fist nails him in the jaw and she sees the bone snap loose under the skin, realizing he was right about it being broken. She feels bad for having given him so much shit over complaining about the pain. He must have been in agony. It was a wonder he could talk.

The shot to the jaw gives her the split second she needs to scramble to her feet, grab her carbine and put two bullets in his head. The big man slumps to the ground, the blood that pools around him already half-congealed from the turning. Her chest is heaving and she can feel the adrenaline coursing through her system.

Groans to her right are too close for comfort so she grabs Duster’s pack, slings her M-4, and starts running through the deserted neighborhood. She doesn’t look back, not even to gauge the distance she’s putting between herself and the group of Zs. She doesn’t want to see Duster’s body laying there face down, with blood everywhere.

We always remember, but that’s not how she wants to remember the man that was more than friend and more even than family. He was a Mate.

***

His eyes flutter and his chin drops to his chest, but Benji fights the
ever-increasing need to sleep, whipping his head back and slapping himself across the cheek a few times.

“You’re gonna give yourself a concussion,” Cole says as he rolls off the couch and does a couple
of quick push-ups before getting to his feet. He shakes his arms and legs, getting the blood flowing to his hands and feet. “I know Ford likes ‘em dumb, but not concussed dumb.”

“Ha ha,” Benji says, pursing his lips. “How about you sit here so I can go take a piss? My bladder is raging mad at me right now.”

“Whiz away, friend,” Cole says. “I would never stand between a man and a good, long piss.”

Benji walks to the corner of the room and pops the lid off a white bucket against the wall. The smell of rancid, old piss hits him, but he ignores it as he empties his bladder.
Normally, once the bucket is full, which is a few pisses off still, a Runner will take it a few blocks away to dump. Even though it’s not as enticing as blood, the smell of piss will still bring Zs towards it in hopes of finding a wounded meal ready for the feasting.

“Can you fucking piss any louder?” Anna Lee says as she opens her eyes and sits up from the floor. “Jesus, you got a fucking
fire hose crammed in your fucking jeans, or what?”

“I’ve always been told that I’m powerful between my legs,” Benji says as he gives a shake and puts the lid back on. He turns and gives Anna
Lee a wink and a smarmy smile.

“Jesus, go dump that,” Val says, rubbing at her eyes. Her head feels foggy with sleep and her body is numb from exhaustion that only a couple hours of rest can’t begin to ease. “Smells like Ford’s apartment in here when you open that shit.”

“Just piss,” Benji says, ignoring the request to dump the bucket. “Shit is over there.” He points at another bucket in the opposite corner.

“Great,” Cole says, standing at the window, making sure he stays in the shadows. “And I thought I’d grab a book
and have a leisurely crap, but I can’t concentrate on literature when people are watching me poop.”

“Every
body poops, dear,” Benji says. “Grow up and deal.”

“Don’t call me dear,” Cole says.

“Whatever,” Benji sneers as he walks over to Cole. “There, all pissed out, you can sit your precious behind back on the couch.”

“You have a lot of
fucking lip for a fucking Runner,” Anna Lee says.

“And you have a lot of
fucking hair on your fucking lip for a woman,” Benji retorts. “Shave that squirrel off or your girlfriends are going to think they’re eating bush when they kiss you.”