District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (8 page)

Still smiling dumbly and in her mind already light years
from a slowly dying Earth, she set the binoculars aside, scooped up the CB
radio, and called in to report what she had just witnessed.

After listening to the soothing, slightly robotic voice on
the other end instruct her exactly what to do next, the watcher lowered the
volume on the handheld CB and then wiggled her knife from the sill where she
had stabbed it when the white truck had so rudely interrupted her
work
.

She set the radio down on the wood floor, leaving a garnet
trace of her own blood on the light ash surface. Then, picking up where she had
left off, she finished the final flourish on the descending serif of the ornate
capital R that she’d already spent the better part of an hour carving into the
painted windowsill.

She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly while moving
her head left-to-right along the length of the dirty windowsill.

Even before the fine wood shavings had floated all the way
to the floor to be absorbed into the blood spattered around her crossed legs,
she was attacking the next letter in the chosen one’s name with the quiet vigor
and precision of a Buddhist monk laboring over a sand mandala.

“Drive it like I stole it” was still cycling through Oliver’s
mind when Daymon came upon a straightaway, sped up exponentially, and
inexplicably took one hand off the wheel in order to answer the warbling
two-way radio.

“Daymon,” he answered, matter-of-factly, as if the fallen
leaves from the skeletal trees weren’t blazing by in spurts of red and orange
and brown.

The speaker hissed white noise for a second then a voice
said, “Lev here. We have an
issue
.”

Daymon was about to ask “
What kind of issue?”
but before
he could get a word in Lev was spilling all about the zombie booby trap and the
feelings of being watched he’d experienced outside the fix-it place.

Preparing to brake for a corner rushing at them, Daymon
said, “You sure?” and passed the radio off to a near hyperventilating Oliver.

“Near a hundred percent sure,” Lev answered. “By the way … Cade
was none too happy we split up.”

Silence on the other end.

Surprised that Daymon wasn’t pissed because of the
disclosure, Lev said, “We’ll be waiting at the post office. What’s your ETA?”

 Daymon took his eyes from the road for a second. “Tell him
we’ll be turning onto 16 in twenty-five minutes … give or take.”

Hands trembling, Oliver keyed Talk, passed on the message,
and signed off.

Once again matting the pedal on the next to last
straightaway before the curving arc of 39 fronting the compound feeder, Daymon
looked sidelong at his passenger and said, “Hail the compound and ask whoever
is watching the road for a SITREP.”

Oliver drew a deep cleansing breath, raised Seth on the
radio and, without fanfare, relayed the message.

Another burst of static emanated from the tiny speaker. With
a trace of levity in the delivery, Seth said, “You’re clear at the road. A special
welcoming party will be waiting to receive your
secret
delivery.”

Still in the dark about what the oversized gym bag on the
floor contained, Oliver handed the radio back to the crazy driver.

***

Listening in on the conversation through the ear bud stuck
in his right ear, Cade shouldered his M4 and aimed the barrel east down the
road at the distant corner. Through the EOTech 3X magnifier, he saw the Chevy
round the bend and slow a bit. Tucking the collapsible stock tighter to his
shoulder, drawing a deep breath, and exhaling slowly brought the front
windshield and cab into sharp focus.

Willing himself back into mission mode, Cade catalogued in
his mind what he was seeing through the optics.
Two bodies. One passenger: Caucasian
male. Driver: African American male. Confidence is high these are the principals.
He thumbed the switch on the foregrip and flashed the oncoming truck three
times with the high-lumen weapon-mounted tactical light.

Seeing the signal, Daymon hailed Seth. “Who’s waiting at the
gate?”

“Cade,” Seth replied at once.

“Oh shit,” Daymon replied. “This could get weird.”

One of Cade’s eyebrows hitched up as he lowered the M4’s
muzzle toward the ground. Wondering what the Eden compound’s mercurial former
firefighter had up his sleeve, he stepped from behind the blind and raised a
gloved hand in greeting.

“I see him,” came Daymon’s voice over the open channel.

The Chevy came to a stop a yard from Cade’s knees, lurched a
bit as the transmission was disengaged, and then the body rolled a bit on the
chassis when Daymon stepped to the road. In the dreadlocked man’s hand was the black
gym bag with the words WEST HIGH PANTHERS - SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH silkscreened
in red on its sides.

Cade hefted the bag. “Heavy.” He set it on the road and
tugged the zipper. Peering at the contents, he said, “You came all this way to
give me these before I left?”

“Hell, you’ve been known to wear armor fashioned from
magazines. Those are no different. Besides, I might need to borrow your muscle
and
your truck before winter really gets a-poppin’.”

Cade zippered the bag and shot Daymon a look that implored
the man to elaborate.

“I found a place. Not far from the crossroads. Real secluded
and secure.”

“Aboveground, I assume.”

Daymon smiled. “Oh, is it ever.”

“What exactly do you need me and the truck for? You can’t
have much that needs moving.”

“I was pulling your leg.” Daymon glanced at the Chevy. The
window was down now and Oliver was waving to get his attention.

Daymon regarded Cade and added, “In the old world. Before
all this dead people walking around bullshit … didn’t you effin hate it when
people asked you to help ‘em move?”

“Not if it was a friend who was asking.”

“What am I to you?”

“I would help you move, Daymon”

“I’m going to get all misty-eyed here,” Daymon said. “Hope I
don’t break down and bawl.”

“Better not,” Cade said, motioning in the direction of the black
domes. “Foley fixed the audio on those things. Seth probably hears everything
we’re saying.”

In his ear Cade heard Seth chuckle and confirm that he could
hear what was being said, but wasn’t really
retaining
any of it.

Though the volume on the radio in Daymon’s pocket was dialed
down to 5, he still heard Seth’s admission. Flipping the black dome the bird,
he said, “Be safe out there, Cade. Wherever
there
is this time.” He
nodded and winked conspiratorially. “Can you give me a hint?”

Cade smiled. “If I did I’d have to kill you.”

“Can you at least bring me back a half-shirt or a shot glass
or something?”

“Copy that,” Cade said offering a fist bump. “I have to get
back. My ride’s due here any minute.”

“And I gotta see what OG wants.”

Cade shouldered the bulging bag. Looking Daymon in the eye,
he asked, “Is Oliver as advertised out there?”

“He’s about average,” Daymon lied. “Still got a lot to learn,
though.”

“Don’t we all,” Cade replied.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Daymon’s lips curled into a half-smile.
He fished the pair of aviator-style glasses from an inside pocket where they’d
been since he plucked them off the dresser inside Casa De Daymon twenty-five
minutes ago. “Along with the other stuff, give these to Old Man.”

Cade took them in hand, inspected the thickness of the
lenses, and noted the fine bi-focal lines. Shifting his gaze to Daymon, he
said, “These just might do the trick. I have to admit I’ll miss the Elton John
look.”

“The others are waiting at the post office,” Oliver called
from the truck.

Daymon looked at his watch. “He’s right. We gotta go.”

“Be careful,” Cade repeated. “You all better stick together.
Strength in numbers … and all that. Whoever is responsible for that trap means
business.”

“You know me,” Daymon replied, as he turned to the truck. “I’m
always
frosty
.”

Cade patted the bag. “Thanks again for these.”

“My pleasure,” said Daymon.

Cade slung his rifle, then retreated behind the camouflage
gate and was lost from view.

***

Back inside the truck, Daymon clicked on his seatbelt and
squared up to Oliver. Stared at him for a long five-count.

Oliver shifted nervously in his seat. Finally he asked,
“What?”

“You’re watering your balls right now. First deadhead we
come upon you’re getting out and doing it up close and personal. Ask me why.”

“What?”

“No, why,” Daymon hissed.

“Why?”

Daymon rolled the Chevy into the first leg of a three-point
turn. Once he was finished reversing across both lanes and had the truck
pointing east, he said, “Because I just lied for you and I don’t know why.”

Oliver was speechless and still gawking at Daymon when his
head was whipped into the seatback from the brisk and sudden acceleration.

***

Fifteen minutes after leaving the compound feeder road
behind, Oliver was staring off into the forest and spotted a slow-moving matte-black
object. He watched it quickly grow larger as it moved south to north, skimming a
copse of alders far off in the distance before being blocked from view by the
pickup’s B-pillar. By the time he craned around and peered out the back window
to reacquire the mysterious craft, there was nothing in the sky save for scattered
clouds pierced with stray bars of golden sunlight.

Facing back forward, Oliver said, “You see that?”

Eyes never leaving the road, Daymon said, “What … Bigfoot?”

Oliver frowned. “No,
dickhead
.” Gesturing in the
direction of the truck’s right rear wheel, he said, “I saw something big and
black flying real low over those treetops.”

 “Like a stealth fighter jet or something?” Daymon replied,
chuckling at the visual Oliver’s words conjured.

“No. There was more to it than just fuselage. There was lots
of movement going on.”

“Are you just trying to distract me from finding you a
rotter to dispatch?”

“No. I saw what I saw.”

Just then two things happened. First, still locked on Channel
10-1, the radio crackled to life and Cade was alerting Seth that his ride to
Springs was inbound to the clearing. Then, as the Chevy rounded a sweeping left-hander,
Daymon said, “Speak of the Devil,” and standing there in the center of 39 adjacent
to the quarry entrance was a male walker. It looked fresh. Full of face and
carrying about a buck eighty, the thing looked like a lost hunter. Only Daymon
knew better. Hunters had rifles. This guy did not. And hunters wore either
safety orange or some type of camo. This guy was stripped down to just his
skivvies and had about a hundred red welts crisscrossing his pallid chest and
extremities.

“There you go, Oliver. That one is tailor-made for you. Set
up just like they instruct folks how to overcome their fear of public speaking.”

“How’s that?”

“They say to imagine the audience sitting there in their
undies. Calms the nerves, they say.” He applied more brake and the Chevy’s nose
dipped slightly. “There you go. Nothing to be nervous about.”

Oliver said nothing.

Daymon pulled the truck diagonal to the centerline.

Down the embankment off the Chevy’s right flank, the Ogden
River rushing by sounded like morning freeway traffic.

Hearing the engine noise rising over the nearby river, the
zombie turned and showed interest in the truck.

“Take Kindness,” Daymon said. “She hasn’t eaten much today.
You feed her good and I’ll feel better about fibbing to Cade about you.” He
threw the automatic locks off and fixed his gaze on Oliver.

“If I don’t?”

Daymon closed his eyes. “Get out.”

“If I don’t?” repeated Oliver, the machete wavering in his
hand.

Opening his eyes, Daymon said, “Then you’re dead to me.
Literally. Get out …
now
.”

Cade was nosing the borrowed Dodge pickup in next to the Eden
group’s lone Humvee when he felt a sudden change in the air pressure. His ears
popped first. Then, as if he’d been transplanted a second heart, a subtle
throbbing began in his chest.

Standing directly in front of his white Dodge Ram, Duncan
bent over and pretended to inspect the truck’s grill and bumper.

“There’s no new scratches on your baby,” Cade said, stepping
out of the truck, arms full with the M4 and oversized bag. “A little help
here?”

Still feigning the auto-rental-return inspection routine as
he looped around to the driver’s side, Duncan stopped mid-stride and shifted
his gaze skyward as a colossal shadow darkened the clearing.

Cade watched his friend walk right into the Dodge’s wing
mirror, bending it back on its breakaway mount.

Spewing a couple of expletives and rubbing his bicep, Duncan
took his eyes from the helicopter orbiting high overhead and looked a question
at Cade.

After a brief glance at the helo, Cade determined that the
pilot of the exotic-looking craft was conducting a thorough recon of the
landing zone before committing to a final approach.

“That’s my ride,” he said nonchalantly as he tossed the bag
on the ground lengthwise in front of his boots. Crouching next to the bag, he
drew the zipper back and pulled out several retail packages of Halloween-sized
candy bars. “For the girls,” he growled at Duncan, who was already reaching for
them. Next, he removed six boxes of shotgun shells, placing them on the crushed
grass.

“I’ve got plenty of those,” Duncan said. “But thanks all the
same. The candy, though …”

Cade shot a quick glance skyward. Saw the unknown to him
twin-rotor helicopter still orbiting high up. His first thought when the bird
had come on station was that he was in for a long, slow ride to Springs aboard
a lumbering Chinook MH-47. Now he wasn’t so sure as the black silhouette began
a final descent.

“Raven and Sasha get the candy. You, my friend, may have
shells,” Cade said, shifting his gaze back to Duncan, who had crouched next to him.
“But you don’t have one of these.” He pulled a black shotgun from the bag. It was
fitted with an EOTech holographic sight, folding stock, and had a vertical
front grip attached below the squared-off forestock.

Duncan’s eyes went wide behind his Elton John-esque glasses.
“You shouldn’t have,” he gushed, already fingering the black stub of a shotgun.
He examined the barrel. “Flash suppressor. Nice.” Turned it over in his hands,
noting the AK-47-style selector arm. Stamped just forward of the selector was a
white S for
Safe
and a red F denoting
Fire
. And jutting from the
same side in front of the embossed letters was the weapon’s charging handle—a
hook-shaped metal lever an inch or so long. All in all, it wasn’t much longer
than the shotgun he usually carried. And—bells and whistles
notwithstanding—didn’t look any more complicated at first glance.

“I didn’t,” Cade conceded. “Daymon did. Consider this Saiga 12
an olive branch. He said he’ll explain it to you later.” He reached back into
the bag and it lost most of its shape when he withdrew a trio of black, boxy magazines
and a pair of bulky, circular-shaped items. He patted the former, which were substantially
larger than an M4 magazine and had a more pronounced forward curve to them. “These
are ten-round 12-gauge mags.” He pointed to the others. “And those two drum
magazines hold twenty shells apiece of the same.”

“This beast is semi-automatic?”

Cade nodded. “Pull the trigger until she’s empty.”

Duncan whistled. “Makes the old Street Sweeper shotgun look
like a baby Derringer.”

“That dog
will
bark,” Cade agreed. He zipped up the
bag and rose, grimacing as his left ankle took most of his weight.

Using the truck’s muddy rear tire for support, Duncan also
rose. “Time for you to go, mi amigo.”

Cade nodded even as he was waving Brook and Raven over from
the shadow of Daymon’s Winnebago where they had been standing.

Glenda and Heidi remained where they were, sitting side-by-side
on the RV’s folding stairs.

“Couldn’t sit this one out,” Cade said, glancing at the helo
just as it was settling on its landing gear dead center on the dirt airstrip.
Even with a hundred-plus-yards separation, the rotor wash made the branches
overhead dance and clack together. “Not after what I saw on the video Nash
sent.”

Duncan nodded, one hand holding his Stetson on his head.
“Never thought I’d see the day foreign troops set boots on our shores.”

Cade was about to respond, but was rocked sideways as first
Raven hit his legs like a mini linebacker, then Brook wrapped him up in a
one-armed hug and planted goodbye kisses on his cheek. He returned the
affection, whispering in Brook’s ear then hefting Raven off her feet to give
her one of his trademark bear hugs. Blinking the mist from his eyes, he set his
daughter down and plucked his rucksack from the ground near the Humvee where
he’d left it earlier. He shrugged the ruck on and checked that the spare mags were
in place in the pouches on his MOLLE vest. Lastly, he scooped up his M4 and the
nearly empty Panther’s bag and stood to attention, fighting valiantly to hold
back the tears forming in his eyes.

After nodding toward the bagged Hershey’s bars, he shifted
his gaze to Raven and Brook, blinked fast a couple of times and mouthed, “Love
you.” Before the emotion of the moment got the better of him, he quickly turned
toward the helo whose rear ramp was just beginning to motor down.

In passing, Duncan looked the man clad in all black up and
down. He said, “Be careful out there, Jim Phelps,” clearly a reference to the
special agent from Mission Impossible. Then, loud enough to carry over the
thrum of the distant chopper, the grizzled Vietnam veteran hollered, “Peter
Graves has nothing on you, Wyatt,” and began humming the unmistakable theme
song.

“I must be getting old timers,” Cade said, turning back and withdrawing
the aviator shades from a pocket. “These are from your buddy, too.”

Smiling, Duncan swapped the old glasses with the new. He
spun a circle, declaring them damn near perfect once he was facing Cade again.

“They’re you, Old Man,” Cade declared and was on the move
again.

Though there was no need to duck his head under the matte-black
chopper’s madly spinning rear rotor blades, Cade put a hand on his helmet and
bent low at the waist anyway.
Old habits really do die hard
.

A compact fireplug of a man clad in MultiCam fatigues soiled
with dirt and who-knows-what-else greeted Cade at the ramp. Taking the sports
bag from Cade’s gloved hand, the crew chief, whose nametape read Spielman,
directed him to a seat just inside the canted ramp.

Cade squinted and stumbled as a boot caught on the foreign
surface underfoot. Eyes still adjusting to the abrupt switch from the flat, unforgiving
light outside to the chopper’s dim interior, he took the seat Spielman had
pointed to, quickly adjusted his rifle on his chest, and slipped the safety
harness over his shoulders and hips. Clicking the black buckle together over his
sternum, he let his eyes roam the helo’s long, narrow cabin.

There were two lumps partially blocking the aisle a few feet
to his left. There were also several seated forms, still just silhouettes thanks
to his compromised vision. He counted six seated shapes to his left, and four
more he assumed were looking back at him from across the aisle. As the hydraulic
piston to his right went to work drawing the ramp closed, his vision slowly
began to improve.

Letting his helmet rest on the bulkhead behind him, Cade
opened and closed his eyes rapidly half a dozen times. Finished blinking the
dust from his vision, he cast his gaze around the cabin and found the inside of
the craft belied everything he had expected. Whereas the outside was very
similar to the Ghost Hawk in appearance and attitude—a mashup of angles and
soft curves all wrapped by what had to be radar-absorbing materials—the troop
compartment of this bird had none of the same accoutrements. There were no flip-down
flat-panel monitors that he could see. If there was a way to communicate with
the aircrew, he could see no jacks to plug into. It appeared that the
technology bomb that had seemingly exploded and coated the insides of the Jedi
Ride he was used to being ferried around in had missed this bird entirely.

The sliver of light atop the rear door faded to black and
the hydraulic whine ceased. As the engines spooled up with a different kind of
whine—a satisfying sound that meant they would soon be underway—once again Cade
felt the pressure worm its way into his ear canals and take up station deep in
his chest. The sensation coincided with his stomach going south as the helo
launched under what seemed like full power. Strangely, however, the rotor
thwop
didn’t reach anything close to the crescendo created by this craft’s nearly
fifty-year-old predecessor. Nor was the same vibration present. Transmitted
through the bulkhead pressing his back, he
could
feel the turbines and
mechanicals at work, but smooth as silk in comparison to the CH-47 “Shithook” as
Duncan fondly called the venerable workhorse of Army Aviation.

With the rear ramp closed, Cade got a whiff of the air
inside the hulking bus-sized helo. It stank of stale sweat, gunpowder, and JP-8
jet fuel, all ensconced in the ever-present sickly-sweet pong of death. Once
the crew chief made his way fore and took a seat beside a flush squared-off window
that was within arm’s reach of the internally stowed minigun, Cade scrutinized the
now fully-defined forms across the aisle from him. They were, to a man,
stripped down to just their Crye Precision MultiCam combat shirts and like-colored
camouflage pants. Sweat stains marked the wicking fabric where their vests and
rucksacks had been riding over their Crye tops. Their MOLLE load-bearing gear—pouches
empty of magazines—sat in an unruly pile on the cabin floor near the ramp. He let
his eyes pause on the patches affixed by hook-and-loop tape to their dirt- and
blood-soiled uniforms and discovered he was sitting amongst a chalk of Rangers
from the Army’s storied 75th Regiment which he proudly hailed from.
Hooah
,
he thought, pride welling in his chest.

The feeling quickly faded and his heart grew heavy when his
eyes fell on the two lumps to his left and realized they were draped with flags.
Likely fallen fellow Rangers.

A gloved hand had worked its way out from under one of the
flags. It vibrated subtly against the floor as if the soldier it was attached
to was still alive. But he wasn’t. Of that Cade was certain. For where his head
tented the flag up there was a deep, almost blackish red stain that had spread
into a Rorschach-like pattern with edges much like the chopper’s—rounded where
gravity had dragged it down the corpse’s cheeks, and jagged where runners had
soaked across the upturned profile. In places on the dead soldier’s chest, the “stars
and bars” were stained crimson.

No body bags.

That didn’t speak well of the outcome of whatever battle
they were returning from.

Once the chopper attained level flight and had picked up
speed, the SOAR crew chief named Spielman worked his way aft from the hip gun
with a flight helmet in hand and a grim look parked on his bearded face.

The helmet was thrust in Cade’s face.

No umbrage was taken. Cade was aware his black fatigues bore
no rank, unit insignia or any of the other markings to denote who he was and
where he’d been. Even if the crew chief or any of the other men had met him
before or knew of him, the nearly full beard obscuring his face negated the
possibility they would know who he was right here and now. And that was just
fine in Cade Grayson’s book.

“Thank you,” he mouthed, taking the helmet and quickly
peeling off his low-profile tactical model.

Staff Sergeant Spielman said nothing. He stood gripping a
strap near his head and gently swaying along with the rest of the
customers
aboard the Night Stalker bird.

Cade snugged the helmet on. It was a perfect fit. Shrugging
and staring up at Spielman, he mouthed, “How does this plug in?”

“It’s Bluetooth-enabled,” Spielman mouthed back, no emotion
conveyed at all. His eyes were hidden behind the lowered visor. “It’ll come on-line
in a second or two.”

The first words Cade had understood by reading the staff
sergeant’s lips. The last sentence he heard loud and clear through the headset
built into the helmet. He was adjusting the boom mic near his mouth when he
heard other voices: the first belonging to the aircrew flying the chopper. Then
a tick later the response to their query for the weather conditions in Colorado
Springs came through not crisp and clean, but with a series of clicks and
chirps before and after suggesting it was an encrypted transmission delivered
via an overhead communications satellite.

Hearing the all-business SITREP from one of the pilots up
front and then the prompt reply from the 50th Space Wing in Schriever told Cade
he was not only able to hear the crew chief, but he was also plugged into the
shipwide coms and would be privy to everything going on behind the scenes.
Which was a good thing seeing as how he was the black sheep—figuratively and
literally—aboard the chopper. Whether the crew chief was aware how the helmet
comms were configured was no concern of Cade’s. That he might be treading where
he was not supposed to could be debated later if it came to that. So, not
wanting to tip his hand and give up the chance to learn more than just what he
could see with his own eyes from his window seat in the stealth helo, he fixed
his gaze on the visor where he guessed Spielman’s eyes to be and mouthed, “Copy
that.”

Spielman merely grunted and then strode back to his seat
beside the retracted minigun.