Escape from the Damned (APEX Predator Book 2) (17 page)

“OK,” Frank ordered.  “Open the gate, and close it back when we’re through.”

Highway 80 20 miles west of the Mississippi River

SSgt Brown was beginning to realize just how much trouble they were really in.  They’d been running from this particular horde of zombies for the better part of three hours.  They were able to outpace the slow moving dead.  That wasn’t the trouble.  The problem was with the civilians.

It seemed that every time they would get a good lead, one of the civilians would need to stop.  Shane had the toughest time keeping up.  He was not in good shape by any stretch of the imagination.  He was fairly young, maybe early thirties. To SSgt Brown, he didn’t appear to be too overweight.  The man obviously carried a few extra pounds, but he wasn’t even close to being obese.  The man was constantly whining for them to slow down or take a break.

That wasn’t even the biggest problem.  As they traveled, more zombies had come from the surrounding country side.  It seemed like every stand of trees or brushy area contained more of the living dead.  He was almost positive they were being drawn to the group by the moaning of the zombies pursuing his little band.

And they had abandoned their food and water when they left the HMMWV.  Theresa had been the only smart one.  She had stuffed a couple of bottles of water into her cargo pockets on the way out.  But the group had finished them an hour ago.

So there they were, he thought; deep in Indian country with a bunch of civilians slowing them down and running low on everything but bad guys.  Something had to change.  He needed to find a way to move faster.  He needed transportation.

He looked longingly across the mile wide field that separated Highway 80 from Interstate 20.  He could see cars on the interstate from here.  There were all kinds:  cars, trucks, vans, big rigs.  And, they were all tied up in a huge traffic jam.  It was the same traffic jam that had forced them to leave the road in the first place.

He thought about Sgt Procell and his Engineers.  They had been tasked with blocking the roads so the herds of zombies could not follow the 101
st
Airborne as it traveled east.  He wondered if someone had gotten the bright idea of blowing the bridges across the Mississippi River.

He shuddered to think of the horror people must have felt:  One minute they had escaped the undead horde, the next minute they are staring at a fallen bridge with those same undead shambling slowly towards them in their rearview mirrors.

Jesus, did we do this?  Did the US Army or someone else condemn these people to die?  How many people died in that traffic jam?  How many of them are roaming these fields and woods?   He shuddered again, envisioning thousands of zombies just out of sight.

As if on cue, another group of a half-dozen zombies broke from the trees.  They were ahead of the group and about 100 yards off of the road.  He judged that they would be able to avoid this group but they would need to pick up the pace.

“Pick it up,” he ordered Sgt Procell.  The group began to jog, passing a mere ten meters away from the newest threat.  That was too close for SSgt Brown.  Something had to be done.  He took the lead, sending Sgt Procell to cover the rear.  He spoke to each person as he passed them.  They were tired.  Even Sgt Procell was tired.  They had to lose this group of zombies and find some place to rest and rehydrate, even if it was only for a half hour.

There, he thought, those trees that come almost out to the road.  That is where we lose these guys.  He looked over his shoulder.  The latest group of pursuers was about 100 meters behind them.  There were a good 300 meters between them and the next, much larger, group.  It was now or never.

He stopped and turned on the group of approaching zombies.  The rest of the group did as well.  “Kill ‘em and then run like hell for those trees over there,” he ordered.  It wasn’t even a fair fight.  He, Sgt Procell, and Shane dropped four of the six before the zombies were close enough for the two women to engage.  The last two fell in a literal hail of gunfire.  Then they ran.

Theresa was the first to reach the tree line.  As she did, two large male zombies in military uniforms broke through the exact bush she was about to stop behind.  Neither zombie was more than five feet from the girl.

She raised her shotgun at the first one and pulled the trigger.  Nothing happened.  She felt a lump growing in her chest as she realized her mistake.  She had forgotten to rack the slide after firing her last round.  Now she was face to face with two zombies.

She shoved the barrel of the shotgun into the closest zombie’s mouth and racked the slide as she did.  At almost the same instant, she slapped the trigger.  The zombie’s head exploded into a black and pink mist of blood, brains, and little pieces of bone.  The beast’s head snapped backwards from the force of the blast.  The body, on the other hand, fell directly on top of Theresa.

She crashed to the ground with a thud.  White hot pain shot through her back.  The shotgun fell from her hands.  She panicked as she felt the thick, cold blood ooze out of the zombie’s neck and down the front of her shirt.  She tried rolling left and then right to get out from under the weight of the creature.  She couldn’t.  It was too heavy.

She could hear shooting.  She looked up as the second zombie dropped to the ground with half of the left side of its head blown off and leaking black fluid.  She caught a whiff of the rotting blood and brains.  She retched and then threw up, adding her bile to the growing pool of foulness.

Suddenly, hands grabbed her arm and pulled her out from under the monster’s rotting body.  She looked up.  It was SSgt Brown.  He had saved her once again.  She tried to wipe the gore from her shirt.  It was useless.  All she managed to do was smear it all over her hands, and throw up again.  Finally she kneeled and wiped her bloody hands on the grass.  At least it took most of the blood off.

SSgt Brown kicked the bodies over.  Both were dressed in ACU’s.  Both still had their load bearing equipment.  He quickly opened all of the pockets, liberating several magazines for the M16’s.  Both also had Camelbacks on.  These are plastic bladders that hold water, placed inside of a carrying case.  The soldiers would drink through a tube with a bite valve in the end.  He deftly removed both Camelbacks.  He wasn’t sure how good the water was, but he knew they needed it.

A quick glance over his shoulder told him they had spent too much time dealing with these two.  The other zombies were within 100 meters of them.  It was time to move.  He tossed Sgt Procell a Camelback and two magazines.

“Let’s go,” he ordered.  The others followed him into the trees.  As soon as he was out of site of the zombies, he turned north.  They continued north until the trees thinned.  They turned east again.

An hour later, he saw a small farmhouse in the distance.  They needed a break.  Hopefully, it wouldn’t turn out to be a trap.  He turned and looked at his people.  Shane was limping badly now.  Theresa seemed to be in a daze.  The barrel of her shotgun bounced off the ground with each step.  She was so tired she couldn’t hold it anymore.  What the hell.

He led the haggard group to the door of the house.  The house seemed deserted.  There was a grey Dodge pick-up truck with four doors in the driveway.  The front door was locked.  For a moment, he let himself have some hope that there would be someone alive inside and that they would be friendly.  He knocked on the door.

The moaning inside brought him back to reality.  He could distinguish three zombies moaning on the other side of the door.  He held up three fingers to his fellow survivors.  He pulled out his bayonet and snapped it to the end of his M4.  Sgt Procell did the same.  Shane drew a survival knife from its scabbard on his belt.  SSgt Brown pointed to Theresa and then the door.  Open it.

She did.  Three zombies stumbled through the now open door.  One was an adult male.  He was wearing a pair of boxer shorts and nothing else.  The other two were young women.  They were both also in night clothes.  It was obvious these people died in their sleep, but at the hands of whom?  Did one die and kill the others as they slept?  Did one have to watch as the other was killed?

Theresa didn’t want to think about it.  In a few seconds, it was all over.  The zombies lay dead on the porch, each with a jagged hole or two in its head.  She followed SSgt Brown through the door.

5 miles northeast of the Fire Station

Jen was getting frustrated.  No, she was getting downright pissed.  This was the third farm where they had stopped.  It was also the third dry hole they had found.  There wasn’t even food in the cabinets.  She was beginning to see a pattern here.  This area had obviously been raided by someone.

She and Mike closed the door as they left.  Frank and Kerry were outside of the SUV, weapons at the ready.  Both glanced at the couple as they marched off the porch.  Kerry could see the look on Jen’s face.  She’d seen it before:  not good.

“Nothing?” the younger girl asked.

“Not even a damned band-aid,” Jen shot back angrily.

“Don’t worry Mrs. Jen,” Frank said.  “We’ll find something.  There are a lot of these farm houses scattered about.  They can’t all be empty.”

She didn’t even know what to say.  She was getting so frustrated.  Or, was it desperation she was feeling?   Either way, standing here talking wouldn’t do any damned good.  “Just get in the car.”

“I know another place we can try,” Frank said as he started the red and yellow SUV.

Ten minutes later they were driving up another farmer’s dirt driveway.  A huge two story farm house stood in front of them.  As Frank pulled close to the porch that circled the entire first floor, Jen noticed a large red X next the front door.

“What do you think that is?” she asked no one in particular.

“I don’t know,” Frank answered.  “This is Bob Johnson’s place.  I’ve been here several times.  That red X is definitely new.”

“What do you think it means?” asked Kerry.

“I don’t know,” answered Frank.  “I’ve ne…”  He stopped mid sentence.  He was about to say he hadn’t seen anything like that before, but he had.  He’d seen symbols spray painted on houses when he went through a disaster rescue training course a few years ago.  The initial search team would go through an area spraying different symbols on a house to denote if it was safe, cleared, dangerous, still had survivors, etc.

Come to think of it, he thought, all of the houses they’d seen today had some spray painted symbols on them.  They weren’t all the same and definitely not standard rescue symbols.  But all of them had something spray painted next to the door.

“That’s a message from someone,” he blurted out in excitement.  “Someone around here has searched this house, and has left a note for others.”

“So, do you think that a big-assed red X is a warning sign?  You know, like the big red X means stay away?”  Kerry was pretty sure they shouldn’t go in.

“Yeah, I’d say it means stay out,” Frank agreed.

“What if the meds we need are in there?” asked Jen.

“We find them somewhere else,” Mike said.  “If someone put that X there, they are warning us it’s dangerous.”

“What if they’re telling us that they are in there and they don’t want visitors?”

“Then I think we should respect their wishes,” Mike answered her.

“No, God damn it!  If they have the medicines we need, maybe we can trade with them or something.”

“Jen, are you listening to yourself?  You’re talking about forcing your way into someone else’s safe place and taking their medicine.  Do you really want to do that?”

“I’m not going to kick the door in Mike.  I’m going to knock on the door and see if they are willing to help us out.”

“Bob Johnson’s a good man,” Frank interjected.  “If he’s in there and he can spare it, I know he’d share what he had with us.”

“So, it’s settled.  Frank and I will go knock on the door.”  She threw her door open and climbed out before anyone could argue with her.

“Shit!” Frank exclaimed.  A quick glance to the others and he followed the woman.  She was already on the porch.  He jogged the last few steps, his boots banging loudly on the wooden planks.  He caught her as she reached the door.

The wooden door had an oval shaped pane of frosted glass in it.  There was a pair of dark curtains covering the glass from the inside.  Frank tried to look inside.  There was a small crack between the curtains but nothing was visible.

Jen reached for the door knob.  Frank stopped her. Instead, he wrapped his knuckles on the door several times.  Nothing.  He turned the handle himself.  The door opened inwards with a loud creaking sound.

“Bob,” he called out as he entered.  “It’s Frank Peters.”  There was no answer.

The two continued into the house.  Jen held her pistol in her right hand, while shining a tiny flashlight around.  The inside of the house was a wreck.  There was overturned furniture, broken lamps, and the TV was knocked off of its stand and in pieces on the floor.  There were several dark brown blood streaks on the floor leading into another room.  From where Jen stood, there was a dining room to her left, a living room to her front, and a closed door to her right.  The blood stain led under the closed door.

She was beginning to regret her decision to enter the house.  She was now sure there was no one alive in here.  Oh well, she thought in for a penny, in for a pound.  She placed her left hand on Frank’s shoulder.  She pointed to the closed door with her pistol.  He got the message and began walking to the door, pistol aimed in that direction.