District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (15 page)

The dog just stared at the creatures fumbling around at the
bottom of the two flights.

“Sorry, Max,” Daymon said, slamming the door for effect. Stabbing
a thumb at the ceiling while speaking softly in Oliver’s direction, he added,
“We think we have ourselves a Goldilocks wannabe upstairs. Just stay here. Keep
your eyes open and be quiet. Max can handle himself around those things.”

Before Oliver could protest or fire off a second barrage of
questions, Daymon was padding quietly down the hall.

***

It took Daymon a full three minutes to scale the stairs with
any semblance of stealth. Then, a full five minutes after leaving Jamie, Taryn,
and Lev alone upstairs, he was heel and toeing it down the hall and looking a
question their way.

“Nothing moved up there,” Taryn whispered. “I think you’re
right about us spooking them. Whoever left the blood trail did so on their way
out
.”

The answer to Cade’s mouthed question about the Screamer came
three long minutes after he posed it.

Ari continued the slow clockwise orbit over the undead horde,
drawing them along all the while tightening the circle until the helo was at a
steady hover just a hundred feet above the multitudes of pale faces leering
expectantly skyward.

Once the monsters were packed in tight a good distance from
the state route and anything the Screamer might get trapped underneath, Ari came
in over the comms. “Half-moon-shaped clump of sage. Taking her down close.”

“Copy that,” replied Skipper, turning away from the window
through which he’d been observing the creatures’ movements. He hastily unhooked
a safety line from the bulkhead, then secured one end of the three-foot-long
cable to a waist-high anchor point a few inches left of the minigun. He clicked
the carabiner on the other end of the lifeline to the D-ring on his flight gear.
While the port-side door slid aft, letting in the pong of death and decay, he
retrieved a gear bag from the nylon webbing, securing it to the front bulkhead.
From the bulging bag came a round, grapefruit-sized device painted in bright
safety orange. The sphere had two black panels the size of a pack of Wrigley’s gum
inset one to a side. Running vertically between the shiny panels, the letters “SCRMR”
had been stenciled in black. No doubt an Army acronym, Cade thought. Then, as
the helo slowed and fell into a steady hover a few feet off the deck, Skipper opened
one of the panels on the device and began fiddling with its internal workings.
A tick later he snapped the panel shut and instantly a shrill scream emitted
from inside the orb. It was high-pitched and warbling, the kind of death knell
Cade had heard coming from the mouths of way too many real people as they died
at the hands of the Zs. The hair-raising keening was also loud enough to trump
the muffled helicopter turbines and rotor blades and eerily enough came across
to Cade as authentic, not a special effect created by a computer in some sound
studio. Which then made him wonder how the ten seconds of audio filled with the
sounds of some anonymous person’s intense suffering had been captured in the
first place.

Pushing the morbid line of questioning from his mind, he
looked at Lopez and said, “What does SCRMR stand for?”

“Self-contained … rolling—”

Cutting Lopez off, the usually quiet crew chief said, “I’ve
forgotten what the M and R stand for, but that doesn’t matter. I’ll tell you
all about it.” As the Ghost Hawk made a final hundred-yard sideslip maneuver
away from the auto-choked state route, Skipper held the device at eye-level. “The
panels are the latest generation of mini solar collectors. Inside this baby is
the battery pack and motion sensor. If I’m not mistaken, it’s some kind of a
jury-rigged mercury switch that starts it making that noise.” Then, like a
short, old, and melanin-deficient version of a Harlem Globetrotter, Skipper rolled
the Screamer in his hands and spun it on one gloved finger like a mini
basketball. “That it’s round makes it nearly impossible for the Zs to accidentally
crush it.”

“I’ve seen a group of them chase one as it rolled around the
ground screaming bloody murder,” Lopez interjected, a half-smile curling his
lips. “Damn if it didn’t look like a bunch of drunks chasing a beach ball.”

“The Zs are one hundred yards off port and turning back,” warned
Haynes, craning hard over his left shoulder, voice all business.

Skipper glanced out the door, then went on, “The scream is
on a timed loop. Ten seconds on, fifty off.”

Crunching numbers in his head, Cade figured he had just north
of thirty seconds until the sphincter-puckering noise again assaulted his ears.
With Eden and the coming winter in mind, he asked, “Is it waterproofed?”

“Can’t take one in the pool with you,” Skipper said, as the
vibration from the Ghost’s landing gear motoring into place transited the
bulkhead under his feet. “So far we haven’t had one fail from getting rained or
snowed on. We lost one down by Green River recently. My theory … the effin Zs
kicked it under a vehicle and with no sun to charge it the battery eventually
died.”

“They’ve acquired us again,” Haynes intoned. “Ninety-five
yards and closing.”

“They’re persistent bastards, aren’t they,” Cade stated,
seeing the distant biomass halt and pause for a beat, a slow rippling action
that preceded them turning their heads in unison and fixing all eyes on the
dust-shrouded helo just as it touched down softly.

Skipper nodded at that. “If they think they have something
trapped they’ll stick around for awhile. But more and more,” he said, as he reached
out and rolled the device into a wiry shock of ankle-high scrub brush, “if they
don’t get a kill or hear anything that tells them prey is nearby, they’re going
to move on. We’ve been seeing them herding up and staying in constant motion
for days and weeks.”

“Hunting the living,” Ari said over the comms. “In mega
hordes, Wyatt. Like that million Z march we witnessed during the Castle Rock
mission.”

“
Witnessed?
” Skipper said, hitting a switch on the
bulkhead that started the side door powering shut. “With all due respect, sir.
I think you mean
decimated.
”

After validating the statement with a thumbs-up directed at
his long-standing crew chief, Ari said, “Wheels up,” and there was a brief
whirring sound followed by a solid clunk as the landing gear rotated back
inside the airframe and seated into place. A tick later there was a soft thud
as the radar-absorbent panels covering the gear wells locked down. An increasing
turbine roar was quickly quelled by the side door seating. Finally, Cade felt
his stomach roil as Ari powered the helo vertically off the desert floor and
banked hard to port, lining the nose up with the distant Rocky Mountains.

Addressing Cade, Skipper said, “Beeson’s come to the
conclusion that it’s better to be proactive. Catch the Zs in groups small
enough that a couple of truckloads of Pikers can roll in and neutralize them on
the spot. Leave the bodies for the elements to take care of.”

Though Cade had a good idea what Skipper meant, he still
felt compelled to ask. “Pikers?”

“They’re the poor bastards among the volunteers who happen
to draw the short straw. Playing piker means you get to ride exposed in back of
whatever vehicles are available—usually deuce and a halfs. Driving the rigs, I
hear, isn’t a choice assignment, either. They do the old Pied Piper thing by
either leading them in a straight line and letting the pikers do their job from
the rear. Or, if they’re out in the open I’ve heard of them driving around the
herd in a big circle … three or four trucks and a dozen pikers. Pretty effective,
but finding the Screamer under all of the corpses afterward tends to be a bit
of a bitch.”

“Wash. Rinse. Repeat,” Cade said.

“Yep. They don’t look it, but they’re real durable,” replied
Skipper, casting his gaze on the herd which was already packing in tight around
the Screamer. “We scoop ‘em up and dust them off then go find the next
manageable pack of deadheads and start all over. Record stands at an estimated
six thousand Zs culled in one day.”

Cade nodded. “Saves on ammo, that’s for damn sure.”

“We’re still not making much of a dent in their numbers,”
Cross said soberly.

“Every dead
demonio
is a step in the right
direction,” Lopez said, crossing himself.

A silence filled the cabin as the helo nosed down slightly
and picked up speed.

Bracing against the maneuver, Cade heard Ari talking to
someone at Schriever. He looked across the aisle and saw that both Cross and Lopez
had their arms crossed similarly over their load-bearing gear. Already Agent Cross
was chin down and eyes closed, his head bobbing with the motion of the ship. Now
and again his face would brush the butt of his SCAR rifle trapped between his
legs, causing him to start and mumble something, the words “Zs” the only thing
intelligible.

Face aimed skyward, the tactical helmet framing his closed, vein-snaked
eyelids, Lopez started to snore.

“Couple of regular Sleeping Beauties we got here,” Skipper
noted.

Cade nodded. Then, following advice Desantos had offered up
so long ago, something to the effect of,
“You’re Army. You have to sleep
when you can get it
,
”
he wrapped his arms around his M4, shut his
eyes, and thought about his girls.

The first warning sign of the impending claustrophobic
attack struck Daymon the moment he had spotted the overhead door and came to
realize where it led. Instantly, his throat had clenched tight and his mouth
had gone dry as a piece of day-old toast.

Standing rooted for an additional ten minutes with the
knowledge of what had to be done bouncing around in his brain had whipped his
guts into a churning mess. And while the second hand on the clock in his mind
had proceeded ahead on its steady metronomic march to the decided-upon time, the
putrid smells and wails of the dead he’d endured for hours while trapped in the
farmhouse attic with Cade and Hoss came rushing back to him with mind-numbing
clarity.

Now, the agreed-upon time having slipped into the past with
not so much as one attic board creaking overhead, Daymon shook his head to
clear the haunting visions and looked at the others. “I don’t think anyone’s
sleeping in
my
bed, Baby Bear.”

Jamie smirked and asked, “So how do you suggest we get the
thing open without a chair to stand on?”

Lev edged close to Daymon. He intertwined his fingers into a
stirrup and leaned forward, offering the man a leg up.

Daymon’s dreads bobbed as he shook his head and waved Lev
off. Squaring up to the attic access hatch, he withdrew Kindness, reached up
and started probing the edges of the flush panel with the long blade. Getting
nowhere with that tactic, he pried at the rubber T handle with the machete’s
rounded tip. Finally, after a little effort and with his craned neck beginning
to ache, one side of the handle popped out and it freefell eye-level to him before
the orange cord securing it to the door snapped taut and arrested its fall.

“I got it,” Taryn said, grabbing for the handle.

Beating her to the punch, Daymon snatched the handle from
midair. “Everyone stand back.”

Once the other three had backed down the hallway, he yanked
down on the cord and stepped clear.

The hatch was spring-loaded and swung down with ease, the
bi-fold ladder extending downward and stopping a foot shy of the floor with a
resonant
bang
.

As if expecting a flurry of gunfire or guillotine to come
scything from the attic entry, the four inched forward, necks bent at unnatural
angles and guns aimed at the dimly lit portal.

“It’s all yours,” Lev said.

Swallowing hard, Daymon whipped his head back and forth. Then,
as if they’d never gone away, all of the usual symptoms of a mounting claustrophobic
attack were back. Dry mouth. Tight throat. Racing heart. And worst of all, the
cold sweats started. “Hell no! I’m not going up there,” he said, taking a step
back from the ladder.

“I’m small,” Jamie said. “I’ll do it.”

She put a hand on Taryn’s forearm. It was far from smooth.
On the contrary, though they were fully healed, the dragons, skulls, and
skeletons tattooed on the teen’s arm—sleeve style, Jamie thought it was
called—were basically just scar tissue: raised and welt-like. “I’ll go first.
You follow me,” Jamie said, starting up the ladder.

“Be careful,” Lev called. In fact, he wanted to pull her
from the ladder and go in her stead, but knew that wouldn’t fly. Like Taryn,
Jamie was strong of will and didn’t take
no
for an answer. So he didn’t
push it. He simply watched her disappear into the gloom.

There was no medieval executioner’s blade awaiting. Bullets
didn’t cut his girl to ribbons. And most comforting of all was Jamie calling
down and saying she was all alone up there and urging everyone to join her.

Everyone
wasn’t joining Jamie upstairs.

Taryn holstered her weapon and monkeyed up the creaky
ladder.

Swinging his M4 around to his back, Lev climbed the stairs
and disappeared into the attic.

Daymon grabbed a rung and stared up into the dark, listening
as the others described what they were seeing.

Jamie first noticed the stench of cigarette smoke hanging in
the air. Because the four gables, each facing a different point of the compass,
were built into the roof pitch, the attic was much smaller than she had
expected. The attic itself was maybe three or four hundred square feet, max.
The roof was angled so that one could only stand erect near the center of the storage
area. Cobwebs clung to everything at eye level. Open-topped boxes filled with
dusty books, mostly old leather-bound bibles and hymnals, were pushed against
the sloped roof. And piercing the plywood sheeting overhead, rusty nails
protruded into the space at crazy angles.

“Careful,” Jamie warned, putting a hand on Taryn’s shoulder
while pointing out the nails. “One already nicked me.”

Taryn bent at the waist and made her way to the east-facing
window. “Just cobwebs over here,” she said, staring out the window at a tangle
of gnarled branches.

Staying on his hands and knees, Lev made his way to the west-facing
window. The first thing that struck him was the fresh wood shavings piled on
the floor below the sill. Even competing with the other odors, the faint smell
of newly carved attic-cured old growth reminded him of high school wood shop.

Oddly, the name ADRIAN that he found carved into the sill
brought back memories of art class. The letters were scribed with care. They
weren’t cursive nor connected in any way. They were of an old-school font, yet
fancy all the same. Then he saw the blood intermixed with the wood shavings and
called out his find. Two plus two just became four in his mind. When combined
with the blood trail downstairs, the spongy mess on the floor here told him that
the person responsible for both had been watching them. He also concluded that
the culprit or culprits’ exit had been hasty. Then the probability that they might
still be nearby, or perhaps going for reinforcements, hit him broadside.

“Tell Wilson and Oliver to ratchet up their alert level,” he
called out loudly enough so that Daymon would hear. “The bleeder was spying on
us and rabbited when we crashed the place.”

“Copy that,” Daymon replied.

Hearing Daymon clomp down the hall, Lev peered out the
window. He could see the body shop parking lot where they had parked their
vehicles. Nothing was amiss, or so it seemed. However, due to the steep viewing
angle from the rooftop dormer, he could only see the top two-thirds of their trucks.
So there was no real way of telling if their tires had been slashed or whether
any other kind of booby traps had been set.

“Check this out,” Jamie called, her voice carrying from the
front of the attic where mounds of winter clothing, no doubt donated to the
church and awaiting distribution before the outbreak, sat crowding the south-facing
dormer.

“Looks like your lady has found a clue,” Taryn said.

***

Downstairs, Daymon stood beside Wilson, both of them staring
at the back yard through the rectangular window inset into the back door.

“It was locked when Jamie got to it,” Wilson stated.

“Doesn’t mean a thing,” Daymon said.

“I know,” Wilson whispered. “I think I saw something moving over
there … beyond the fence.” He nodded and then traced his finger on the glass.
“See that?”

“See what?” Daymon asked, a hint of irritation creeping into
his tone.

“The trail in the grass. It’s like the game trails around
Eden.”

“I saw it earlier,” Daymon admitted. “Figured it was just
made by some nosy rotters. But seeing as how the front porch was covered with cobwebs
when we got here, it’s pretty obvious that when we banged on the door our
bleeder came running down here and squirted out the back.”

“Think they’re gone?”

“I’d put money on it,” Daymon said in a low voice. “Would
you stick around?”

Wilson shook his head no.

“I wouldn’t either. My guess is the movement you saw was
likely just the wind bending the grass.”

“Or someone beating feet,” Wilson proffered.

Daymon made no reply. He just continued staring at the
overgrown backyard.

The sound of heavy footfalls filtered down the hall a tick
before Oliver, breathing hard and wild-eyed, burst into the kitchen babbling
about rotters on the porch.

“—and they’re turning the doorknob,” he added, gesturing
toward the perceived threat with his rifle muzzle.

“Take a breath,” Daymon ordered. “Is the door locked?”

Oliver nodded an affirmative. “Deadbolt was good, so I threw
it.”

“Do rotters use keys to open doors?”

Oliver shook his head side to side, then ran a shaky hand
through his hair.

“Then what’s the problem? There’s only two of them … right?”

“I haven’t looked recently.”

“Some help you are. Follow me.” Daymon led Oliver down the
hall. At the foyer he told Oliver to wait while he split off and made a beeline
for the living room window.

“Well?” Oliver called out.

“We’re good,” was Daymon’s reply as he turned and padded back
down the hall toward the kitchen. “Keep doing what you’re doing. But check the
front stoop now and again, will ya?”

Oliver nodded. “The handle … it’s still moving.”

Nearly to the kitchen, Daymon slowed his gait and turned
toward the front door. “I’ll fill you in on that piece of the puzzle before you
go out to put them down.” He didn’t wait for the argument. Instead, he turned
back to face the kitchen and saw that Wilson had thrown the lock and was
pulling the back door inward. About to admonish the redhead for going outside
without backup, he instead broke into a full sprint, holstering his pistol
midway through the first long stride.

Hearing the rapid clomp of boot heels striking hardwood,
Wilson spun around midstep and raised his arms in a defensive posture. Which did
nothing to soften the blow from Daymon’s two-hundred-pound frame as it struck
him chest-high and lifted him off his feet. Then, while the air escaped his
lungs with a hollow
whoosh
, Wilson witnessed three things happen near simultaneously,
seemingly in slow motion. First he saw the door jambs and kitchen cabinets fly
by in his peripheral as inertia from the sidelong tackle set his body spinning
on axis and tilting horizontal to the floor. Once fully airborne, his gaze went
to Daymon’s contorted face, then moved on to the unlit porch light atop the
door frame, and finally saw some unknown foreign object scything the air above
both of their heads.

Though possessing a fair amount of give due to the recent
snow and rain, the ground still was unforgiving when Wilson’s sudden and
unexpected meeting with it stole what little air remained in his lungs.
Consequently, a fraction of a second later when Daymon’s full weight came
crashing down on Wilson’s fully prostrate body, there was nothing left in the
lungs to purge, so instead his stomach gave up its contents, fully and also without
warning.

Timing being everything for the second instance within the
span of a couple of heartbeats, Daymon rolled off of Wilson a half-beat shy of
being splashed by what remained of the younger man’s breakfast. And as he lay
there in the crushed grass listening to Wilson retch, he stared past his boots
and saw the four-foot-long section of tree trunk that had just missed them swinging
pendulum-like outside the back door. Barely bigger around than his wrist, the
length of aspen was shot through with a couple dozen of what looked to be
six-inch-long 60-penny nails.

“That was close,” Daymon said, as Oliver came skidding to a
halt, his body nearly filling up the door frame.

“What the eff?” Oliver mouthed as he reached out to arrest
the contraption.

“Back off,” Daymon bellowed.

With a quizzical look settling on his face, Oliver did as he
was told, both hands going up in mock surrender.

“How’d you know?” Wilson asked, his words coming out barely
above a whisper.

“When I saw there were no cobwebs across the back porch I
started thinking that whoever left the rotters in the body shop may have more
tricks up their sleeve.”

“But how did you
know
?” Wilson asked, wiping the bile
from his lips. “What made you drop everything and just act?”

“I saw you about to go through the door alone. At that
point, seeing as how we already have a pair of Zs at the front door, I was a
little concerned …
and
a little pissed-off.” Daymon bit his tongue and
hung his head. “Good thing my eyes are better than Old Man’s … I spotted the
twine stretched across the door frame when you pulled the door toward you. And
luckily for you I ran track in high school.”

“You gotta see this,” Oliver called from the back porch.

Daymon rose and helped Wilson to his feet. “Anything
broken?” he asked.

“I’ll be sore tomorrow,” Wilson answered. “But thanks to you
there will be a tomorrow.” He slapped the taller man on the back and together
they scaled the back stairs.