District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (13 page)

Go directly to Springs
, Cade thought.
Do not pass
Go, do not collect $200
. In reality, all he wanted from his old friend and mentor
was to be able to pick the man’s brain. Find out how far inland the foreign
invaders had come. Any little piece of intel he could forward on to Eden would
have been better than none. But that was a moot point now, because the second
the crew chief had passed along the little nugget of bad news, he remembered he
didn’t have a sat-phone on his person in the first place.

Although the angular black craft had projected the same
sense of menace as the old MI-24 Hind attack helicopters Alexander Dregan was most
familiar with, he hadn’t the slightest clue as to what make or model the helicopter
was that had paid Bear River a wholly unexpected visit forty-five minutes ago.
However, he was aware that anybody who had been watching the craft as it
lumbered overhead—in this case the town’s entire population along with several
dozen equally interested zombies lurking just outside the walls—would have had to
have been blind to have not seen the low-speed, low-altitude orbits for exactly
what they were. Someone was sending the denizens of Bear River a message in a
very real and in-your-face way. And judging by the muted gray markings on the
craft’s upswept tail, that someone had the ear of the United States Army. That
the landing gear remained inside the craft’s fuselage told him whoever was
sending the message had no intention of landing on Main Street and delivering
it via uniformed emissary.

Seeing the multi-barrel miniguns protruding from both sides
of the craft during the entire three-minute show of force had added some extra
emphasis to the message. It was as if the business end of a rifle was being
trained on each and every person looking skyward.

You’ve been warned, Judge Pomeroy
, Dregan had thought
at the time. Now he was wondering why in the hell the effusive former Salt Lake
City judge hadn’t come calling to discuss the aerial intrusion. Surely he
wasn’t tired of micromanaging every bit of minutiae of day-to-day survival as
he’d been wont to do since his admission to Bear River a few short weeks ago.

All of Dregan’s wondering ceased the second the satellite
phone in his jacket pocket emitted its shrill electronic peal. There was no way
the helicopter flyby and this out-of-the-blue call from his new friends to the
west—the only number he’d sought fit to program into the phone—could
not
be connected. So he fished the slim black device from a pocket without bothering
to squint and try to read the small words on the illuminated screen and thumbed
the green Talk key.

“Hello,” he said, more guttural grunt than spoken word.

“Dregan?”

He recognized the voice on the other end. Like his, it had a
unique inflection. But instead of sharing his Slavic accent, this man named
Duncan spoke with a pronounced Southern drawl.

“Da,” he said. Then quickly correcting himself, added, “Yes
… this is Dregan.”

“Duncan here. I bet you’re wondering who was responsible for
springing the surprise airshow on y’all.”

“I
know
who was responsible,” Dregan answered. “The
helicopter had U.S. Army markings. If I had to guess, I’d say it belonged to
the 160th SOAR.”

“Well I’ll be dipped in shit,” Duncan said. “You an aviator,
Dregan?”

Though he wasn’t a pilot, Dregan sidestepped the question.
“Before all of this I liked to watch the History Channel. Back when it actually
ran programs having to do with
history
. Not shows about hunting antiques
or digging gold mines.”

Duncan said, “Me too. Sure miss the ol’ boob tube. Anyway …
that was—”

“—a message for the Judge,” Dregan finished. “And almost an
hour later the nosy pig has yet to come over and sniff for truffles.” He looked
out over the backyard and saw his boy, Peter, toying with the blue tarps
covering the military vehicles parked underneath the fir tree dwarfing the
nearby run of cement freeway barriers.

“If he does,” Duncan said, drawing the words out, “give him
that phone of yours and tell him to call the number stored under 2 in the speed
dial.”

After a moment of silence, Dregan said, “There is only one
number stored in this phone.”

“In a second there will be two.” There was a rustling of
paper on the other end. “Ya there?”

“Yes.”

“You have something to write with?”

“One moment.”

Roughly thirty miles away, Duncan heard Dregan put the
handset down. Muffled by distance, he heard what sounded like drawers being
opened and then soft cursing filtered over the connection. A few seconds ensued
and there was a prolonged bout of coughing. It was loud and phlegm-addled.
Someone hawked and spit and then the accented voice was back. “Go on.”

After rattling off a string of numbers that began with a
Colorado area code, Duncan said, “Program that into your phone. If the Judge
comes to you with his panties in a wad, don’t say a thing. Just power that bad
boy on, find that number on speed dial, and give the old boy the handset.”

“Then what? Who will be on the other end?”

“Just sit back and watch hilarity ensue as our robed friend
gets taken down a peg or two.”

There was another prolonged coughing fit on Dregan’s end.
Finally he asked, “By whom?” The question was followed by a steady wheezing.

“The President herself,” Duncan answered, a happy tone to
his voice.

Stunned silence on the other end.

“You okay, friend?”

“No. I am not,” Dregan conceded flatly.

“Take your time and compose yourself. Because as farfetched
as it sounds … I’m not blowing smoke up your ass.”

After a few wet, laughter-infused rasps, Dregan said, “The
cancer isn’t down there. I suspect it is in the lungs.”

Grimacing at his choice of words, and not sure what to say
after the sudden revelation, Duncan simply changed the subject. As if the big “C”
had never been broached, he said, “Cade has the President’s ear. You did the
right thing the other day. And since then everything we’ve seen leads us … and
in a roundabout way, President Clay, to believe Bear River would be better
served as it was founded—with you running the show and men whom you appoint
handling security. So long as you leave interpreting the rule of law as it is
in the books to the Judge, everything should run smoothly. At least as smooth
as a damn near frontier town can considering the circumstances.”

“When he gets over the bug that’s going around here, I’ll
deputize my boy, Greg. We have no doctors or medicine strong enough to beat
back what’s going around, let alone what I have. Eventually I will succumb to
this.” He swallowed hard. “Gregory will carry on for me.”

Seeing as how Gregory was the son who had been bitten and
consequently saved by Raven’s dose of antiserum, Duncan didn’t think it kosher
to ask for particulars concerning the
bug
.

After a short silence, Dregan added, “We’ll be fair, as always.”

“That’s what Cade figured you’d say. He’s a pretty good
judge of character.”

“Judge,” Dregan said and began laughing. “I shall do my
best.”

Duncan cackled at his unintentional funny. Once he’d
composed himself, he said, “Call us if you need
anything
.”

“Your people saved my boy’s life. You may call us if
you
need anything.”

What we have here is a regular old lovefest
, thought
Duncan as he agreed to agree with the man. Knowing full well that there was
nothing anyone could do to combat the big “C,” even considering the combined
six decades of nursing know-how sitting on folding chairs in the nearby
clearing, he simply said, “Take care of yourself.”

“Da,” Dregan answered, and the line went dead.

“Everyone is off the hook,” Duncan called out. “The dreaded
call has been made.”

“Get off your pity pot and get over here,” Glenda ordered.
“I’ve got a crick in my neck from you spooning with me all night.”

Seeing as how Raven had already set the precedent, her small
hands kneading the hardened scar tissue between her mom’s shoulders, there was
nothing Duncan could do or say to shirk the duty. So, putting his game face on,
he stuck his tongue out at a smirking Raven, made a show of cracking his
knuckles and, under the watchful gaze of Foley, Seth, and Tran, trudged
grudgingly, hand in hand with Glenda, toward the coveted patch of sunny ground
in the center of the clearing.

The watcher was still hunched over and carving on the sill
when the growly white pickup truck returned. When she looked up she saw that it
was trailing two similar vehicles, both painted black as night. Blood still
weeping from the wounds on her hand, she set the knife aside and began to suck hungrily
at her fingers. Craning her head fully to the right, she pressed her cheek to the
glass and tracked the convoy with her eyes, watching intently as all three
vehicles turned left off of 100 and wheeled onto the body shop parking lot. Eyes
narrowing, she muttered something unintelligible as the pickups came to a halt parked
three abreast, the largest among them on the left and rudely blocking the
sidewalk. Then she noted how they were arranged color-wise, the two black
trucks bookending the white.
Like turkey and Swiss on rye.
Or better
yet
, she thought, her stomach growling loudly,
a Double Stuff Oreo
cookie.
Of which she sometimes still dreamed, and was forbidden from
consuming. In fact,
all
sweets and junk food were off limits to everyone
but Adrian, who apparently needed them for the arcane rituals that kept the
Purged at bay.

Mother liked rituals.

And sacrifices.

She smiled and breathed deeply. In her head was Mother’s gruff
voice again:
We all make sacrifices
.
All for One. One for All.

The truck’s doors opened wide and out spilled four men and
three women. A mix of old and young. One black and five Caucasians.

The watcher was still milking the cuts on her hand of salty
goodness when the brindle-colored dog emerged from the big black truck.

A thick rope of drool, pink with blood and wholly
unexpected, sluiced from the corner of her mouth. She wiped her lips dry with
the back of her hand as she watched the looters follow the dog up to the closed
door. The dog sat while the looters conferred.

She scooped up her radio and powered it on. Once the initial
burst of white noise had subsided, she clicked the Talk key twice and waited.

The wait was short.

“Yes,” came the all-too-familiar voice.

The watcher depressed the Talk key. “They’re back,” she
reported.

A one-word order was delivered by the person on the other
end. Same strained rasping voice:
Observe
. Then, every bit abrupt as the
delivery, the connection cut out.

She lowered the volume and shoved the radio into her vest
pocket. Eyes never leaving the dog, she shrugged on a ratty canvas daypack, and
without warning her salivary glands kicked into overdrive and her mouth began
to fill again.

So she spat in a corner and focused her attention solely on
the looters, who were still in a huddle and conversing animatedly, seemingly
oblivious to the pair of Purged shuffling their way.

After a moment’s contemplation, during which the younger
girl and the redhead man both seemed to be arguing with the dreadlocked man,
the latter of the three turned around and banged on the shop door with a
green-handled machete.

Good luck with that
,
dummy
, the watcher
thought, drying her lips on her shirt sleeve
. The kids already released them
… forever.
Suddenly, causing her to start visibly, the watcher’s stomach
emitted a low, wet rumble that went on for a couple of seconds. Oh how she
wanted something to eat.
Anything
.
Hell
, she thought, embarrassed
the nasty habit hadn’t died with the Purge,
a cigarette always numbs the
hunger
.

So she rattled the last bent Marlboro from the pack, which
she wadded up and chucked across the room. When she looked back down the street,
the body shop door was wide open and the dreadlocked man was squatting and inspecting
the dead things Ratchet had left tethered together inside the shop.

Consider it a warning
, Ratchet had muttered as she
cleared the stoop of snow so that the door would swing wide enough to allow the
inert, cold-affected bodies passage.
Like marking our territory,
she had
added with a mirthless grin as she had gone about doing whatever it was that she
did to them prior to setting their leashes and shutting them inside.

The watcher had been real proud of herself that day. The old
her would have been begging for details. Nagging Ratchet until she snapped and
hit her. It had been that way with her biological dad and grandpa and seemingly
every boyfriend she ever had up until Pocatello fell and the ones who hadn’t fled
the city became affected by the Purge and came back meaner than ever.

Nope.

Nosiree
… she hadn’t even thought to ask Ratchet what
she used the scalpels and bone saws and bolt cutters for. Details now were none
of her concern. As the title implied, Watchers were supposed to be seen and not
heard. Get out of the way and observe. Whenever Mother repeated that mantra, the
watcher heard her grandad’s voice:
You make a better door than a window,
Iris.
It was
his
mantra whenever she stood too close to the old
console television, blocking his view of the Lawrence Welk Show or Hee Haw or
Live from the Grand Ole Opry.

One day
, thought Iris, blocking out the memories of
the abuse she had suffered during the previous five decades she now referred to
as her
old life
, I
will
be trusted to
do
.

Again Mother’s harsh voice echoed from deep inside Iris’s
brain where only she could hear.
Do unto others as they would do unto you
,
it reminded.

When the looters had finally tired of inspecting the fallen
Purged, they shoved the bodies back into the gloom, closed the door, and then made
their way to the road with the Shepherd in tow and sniffing the air and ground
all around. They stopped dead-center in the middle of the road in a loose knot.
After half a beat, Iris saw the dreadlocked man step away from the others and stare
westward, down the length of the road. Then he spun a slow one-eighty and
rejoined the group, where he immediately pointed up the road, seemingly straight
at the window her face was mashed against.

She drew back from the light spill and swallowed hard. “No
way he could have spotted me up here,” she told herself.

She put her sliced fingers in her mouth and admired her
handiwork for a beat.

ADRIAN.

The N is perfect.

She was done.

When she eased forward and peered out the window, the group
was a block and a half west of her position and marching up the sidewalk. Head
craned to the left, the dreadlocked man was walking and pointing. Was he still
focusing on her window? Or was he eyeing the church? From Iris’s vantage, she
couldn’t tell. However, the dog was a more immediate threat. It was running
free, ears perked and stub tail wagging furiously. Ranging a few yards ahead of
the looters, it would stop periodically to sniff the tires of the cars edged up
against the far curb before knifing off through the grass growing window-high
beside them.

Now marching beside the dreadlocked man was a tanned
thirty-something. He was clad head-to-toe in camouflage consisting mostly of
dark greens and browns and patterned like trees. The two brunette women walking
in the center of the group were also swathed in camouflage. The older wore the same
dark woodland theme as the man to her fore, while the tanned and tattooed
woman’s garb sported a much tighter pattern made up of lighter shades of tan
and green.

Bringing up the rear of the slow-moving cluster was a slim,
younger man whose shock of red hair seemed to be trying to escape from under
his rumpled, floppy-brimmed camouflage hat. And walking in the redhead’s shadow
was a shorter, balding man. He moved like a cat in the company of feral dogs, pensive,
eyes darting and head constantly moving, as if on a swivel.

Suddenly the group stopped at the bottom of the church
steps.
Go. Do it
, Iris thought, envisioning herself setting a trap of
her own one day. A smile creased her face at the mere thought of graduating
from
Watcher
to
Doer
.

Then her imaginary house of cards came tumbling down.