Red Hammer: Voodoo Plague Book 4 (15 page)

Lee Roach pulled to the side of the road, looking at the
sign ahead.  Oklahoma City – 23 miles.  He was on the shoulder of Interstate
40.  It had been surprisingly easy to find his way off the levee in Arkansas,
follow the grid of small agriculture roads to the freeway and head west.  He
had seen the occasional infected, but only in very small groups and too far
from the pavement to present him with any problems.  That had been good,
because he’d only been armed with a small pocket knife.

“What are we doing?”  The girl in the passenger seat asked,
waking up and looking around.  Roach ignored the question.

In Little Rock he had briefly considered going to the Air
Force Base and bluffing his way onto the next flight west, but had dismissed
the idea for fear that the Army had already contacted the Air Force with a warning
about him.  Instead, he had skirted the city, driving past heavily armed work
gangs that were burning the bodies of slain infected.  The stench was
unbelievable, and Roach could still taste it in the back of his throat.

West of Little Rock, he had needed gas for the truck he had
stolen.  Sticking to the back roads, he had come across a small service station
at the junction of two minor state highways.  Stopping across the road he had
surveyed the small business.  He was still dressed in boxer shorts, a white T
shirt with a tactical vest over it and his uniform shoes.  Wherever he stopped,
he would draw attention and be remembered.  Was anyone looking for him?  Was
life in Arkansas still close enough to normal that the police would be checking
businesses like this one, his description in hand?  He didn’t think so, and he
had to have fuel to keep moving, so taking his foot off the brake he pulled up
to the pump.

Hopping out of the cab, he had grabbed the nozzle, turned
the pump on and shoved it into the truck’s filler neck before anyone could come
walking out.  He had no way to pay for the gas, and was prepared to do whatever
he needed to get away with a full tank.  Nearly ten gallons had been pumped
before he got curious about why no one had come out to greet him.  Proprietors
of old technology pumps like these didn’t normally sit inside while someone
filled up.  There was no way to pay at the pump, or even to monitor or control
it from the office, so they would come out to make sure someone didn’t drive away
with a free tank of gas.

At fifteen gallons, curiosity turned to concern, and Roach
tried to see through the plate glass windows.  The light was just right to make
the windows act like a giant mirror, and all he could see was his own
reflection.  Was there someone in there on the phone with the police right
now?  Why else wouldn’t they have come out?  What if they were waiting for him
to drive away so they could get the license plate to give to the cops?  The
thought of being hunted and run to ground chilled him, and Roach decided the
person inside had to die before he drove away.  Opening the door to the truck
he rummaged around behind the seat, finding a tire iron, doubling his arsenal. 
Tire iron in his left hand, tucked along the inside of his arm so it was hidden
and folding knife open in his right, he walked toward the side of the building
like he was going to the restroom. 

Circling around the back, Roach came across a small
structure that had been added on to the back of the double service bay.  Stepping
quietly, he went to a window on the back of the addition and looked in, jerking
away when he saw an infected male.  The male couldn’t see him because he was
blind, and Roach had moved quietly enough that the infected hadn’t been alerted
to his presence.  Deciding he’d found the reason for no one coming out looking
for payment, he headed back for the truck.  Passing the side windows for the
office area, he glanced in and saw a couple of racks of chips and jerky, his
stomach immediately rumbling loudly at the sight.

Not remembering the last time he’d eaten, Roach changed
directions and walked up to the glass door.  Pocketing the knife and sticking
the tire iron through a loop on his vest, he cupped his hands around his eyes
and pressed his face to the glass.  Nothing moved, and to his left a door that
probably led to the addition where he’d seen the infected was closed.  Stomach
growling again, he quietly pushed the door open, ready to flee if he heard or
saw anything. 

When all remained still, he pushed the rest of the way in,
letting the door close softly behind him.  The two racks he’d seen from outside
were stuffed full of cheap, off-brand snacks, but they looked like a five star
meal at the moment.  He started to step forward to grab some of the food,
pausing when he spotted three more racks lying on the floor, stripped clean. 
If someone had taken it and left, why hadn’t they taken all of it?  Had the guy
in back been living off the junk food before he turned?  Movement from the dark
interior caused him to catch his breath and whirl to face the threat, snatching
the tire iron and lifting it over his head.

A girl, a teenager, stood in the dark corner, aiming a large
pistol at him.  She was dirty and skinny with shoe polish black hair.  A hot
pink stripe ran down the center of her head, nearly neon at the tips, fading
into the black before it reached her scalp.  She was dressed in skin tight
jeans and a crop top that exposed her mid-section from just below her breasts
to the waist of her low slung pants.  Tattoos covered nearly all of her visible
skin, and what wasn’t tattooed was pierced.  Only her face had escaped the
needle and the piercer, and even in his surprise, Roach noted how pretty she
was.  Or could be, if she was cleaned up a little.

“You’re getting free gas.”  She said with a soft, Alabama
accent.  “Just go on and leave and be glad I didn’t shoot you when you walked
in.”

“I need some food.”  Roach said, surprising himself that he
wasn’t already running for the truck.  “It’s been a long time since I ate.”

“Tough shit, asshole.  Food’s mine.”  The girl waved the
pistol slightly, emphasizing that she wasn’t messing around.

“OK, I’m going.”  He said, starting to back towards the
door.  “Thanks for the gas.”

She said nothing, just watched him, pistol never wavering. 
They both jumped when the infected began pounding on the door behind her.  She
moved a few steps closer to Roach, turning her body so she could keep the
pistol pointed at him, but watch the door. 

“Pig fucker!”  She hissed at Roach.  “He’s been quiet for a
couple of days…”  If she was going to say more she never got it out.  The door
burst open with a splintering of wood, the infected staggering into the room
with them.  He was huge, one of the largest men Roach had ever seen, and he had
a bearing on the girl, snarling as he lunged in her direction, arms stretched
out to sweep her into a deadly embrace.

Roach expected her to shoot, but she didn’t.  Grabbing a
small pack off the floor, she turned and ran straight at him.  He started to
move, but she had a step on him, ramming him with her shoulder as she charged
out the door.  The infected adjusted direction to follow the noise and Roach
caught his balance and dashed out the door behind her.  She had already reached
the truck, which had finished filling, and yanking the fuel nozzle out she
threw it to the ground. 

She jumped in, cursing loudly and pounding the steering
wheel when she tried to start the engine but there were no keys in the
ignition.  Roach ran around the back of the truck, skidding to a stop when she
stepped out of the cab and shoved the pistol in his face.  Behind him, he heard
the door slam open as the infected stumbled out of the office.

“Give me the keys.”  She said, eyes hard over the pistol
sights.

“Fuck you.”  Roach said, bouncing the tire iron against his
empty palm.  “If you had any bullets in that thing you would have shot him, not
run.”  She stared at him for a long moment, finally lowering the pistol and
shoving it into her waistband.  She glanced to the side to see how close the
infected was.

“Take me with you.”  She said, her voice now plaintive. 
“Please.  I’ve been running for weeks.”

Roach looked at the girl, then turned his head when the
infected slammed into the far side of the truck, rocking it on its suspension. 
Soon it would bump its way around the perimeter of the vehicle and he wasn’t
confident he could bring it down with just the tire iron.  He turned back to
the girl and took a moment to look her over.

“Look, I’ll do whatever you want.  Blow job.  You can fuck
me.  Anything you like.  Just get us out of here!”  She begged, head turned to
watch the infected fumble his way around the hood of the truck.

The offer intrigued him.  She was the right age, but wasn’t
his type.  He preferred them innocent looking.  Miss Teen Beauty Pageant
looks.  Fresh and clean, not ruined with tattoos and studs everywhere.  He
thought about hitting her with the tire iron and leaving her, then thought
again.  If the police were looking for him, they were looking for a man traveling
alone.  Not a couple.  She might be exactly the cover he needed.

“Get in.”  He gestured with his head, following her into the
cab of the truck and slamming the door.  Digging the keys out of a vest pocket,
he started the engine and peeled away from the pump just as the infected
slapped a meaty hand against the driver’s window.

We quickly moved into the elevator when the screams rang
out.  If I’d been thinking I would have remembered that elevators always make
some kind of noise to announce their presence.  I’d been distracted, thinking
about getting stuck in the elevator, when I should have been thinking a step
ahead of my actions.  Now we not only had to worry about the power dying and
leaving us stranded in a metal coffin, I had succeeded in alerting the infected
to our presence inside the building.  Getting old, John.

Scott had pushed the button marked 5, the doors sliding
slowly shut.  Before they closed completely the sound of running feet in the
hallway reached my ears.  Shit, the infected had found us fast.  I briefly
wondered if the smart females had retained enough memory to recognize the sound
of the elevator bell, running straight to it.  Was that a possibility?  Shaking
my head I dismissed these thoughts, forcing myself back to the moment.  The
elevator dinged as we passed the first sub-level.  A couple of seconds later it
dinged again for two, then three.  We all felt it slow as four approached, then
it jerked to a stop, double dinged and the doors slid open.

The three of us stood abreast, backs pressed against the
rear wall of the car, rifles aimed at the doors as they moved.  When they
opened we found ourselves facing a woman dressed in a skirt and heels with a
white lab coat.  She had a short barreled automatic rifle pointed into the
elevator.  Everyone froze.  After a few long moments the elevator dinged again and
the doors started to close.  Taking a chance I lowered my rifle and stepped
forward, reversing the door with my hand.  I stood there, holding them open.

“I’m Major John Chase.  US Army.”  I said, glad to note that
neither Scott nor Martinez had lowered their weapon.

After a few more moments she lowered her rifle and
straightened up.  Letting the rifle hang down in her right hand she reached up
and pushed a mane of thick, blonde hair out of her face.  She was about 30 with
big, blue eyes and smears of dirt on her face.   

“I’m Dr. Meredith Monroe.  Thank God you’re here!”  She
said, smiling at us.  I waved for Martinez and Scott to lower their rifles. 
“I’m an assistant project director.  Well, I was.  What are you doing here? 
Did you get my message?”

“No, Doctor.  We didn’t expect to find any survivors.  We’re
here for something else.  Are there others?”  As cold as it may sound, I hoped there
weren’t.  We didn’t have the resources or time to mount a rescue mission for a
bunch of scientists.  I chided myself for the thought, but facts are facts.

“I’m all that’s left.”  She said, a sad expression crossing
her face.  “There were a few of us hiding.  Six others, but there’s no food
down here so they went up top a couple of days ago and never came back.  I
stayed behind, and when they didn’t return I took this weapon off one of our
security guys who had died.  I was hoping that was them when I heard the
elevator.”

I looked at her for a long minute, thinking about what she’d
just told me.  She didn’t look like she had missed many meals.  Looked healthy
and strong, but it was hard to tell.  Underneath the blocky lab coat her ribs
could be threatening to burst through her skin. 

“Can you take me with you?”  She asked, eyes locked on
mine. 

“Get in.”  I said, stepping aside but keeping a hand on the
door so it didn’t close on her.  She hustled into the elevator, heels clicking
on the hard floor, moving to the back wall and standing next to Martinez. 

“Watch the doors.”  I barked to Scott and Martinez.  “Doctor,
lose the heels.  They make too much noise.  You know how to use that rifle?”

“I was a country girl.”  She answered, stepping out of her
shoes and losing about three inches of height.  “I know how to shoot.”

“Fine.  Keep the rifle.  But do not fire that weapon unless
one of us tells you.  It’s not suppressed and will make a hell of a racket that
will attract the infected.”

There was another double ding as we came to a stop again,
the doors opening onto another brightly lit hall.  No one and nothing was
waiting for us and Scott and Martinez moved into the opening, each of them
blocking a door with a foot as they scanned both directions.  When Scott called
a soft “all clear”, they stepped fully into the hall and I followed with Dr.
Monroe. The doors closed behind me and I turned to face our new companion.

“Do you know where vault W is?  Save us some time in having
to search for it.”

“It’s to our left.  Vaults are alphabetical, going all the
way to YY which is far to our right.  What’s in there that you need?  We don’t
do bio or viral work here.”  She was far from slow, and the look she gave when
asking the question told me she had a good idea what we were after.  Oh well. 
She’d find out soon enough.

“SADMs.”  I answered.  She looked back at me with a blank
expression.  “Backpack sized nuclear weapons.”

I didn’t know what type of reaction to expect.  Would she
immediately start protesting that we had no business taking the nukes?  That it
was wrong to even think about using them?  Maybe she’d try to pull out the
“you’re not authorized” card.  But she didn’t do any of that.  Instead, she
thought about what I said for about two seconds, then turned and pointed down
the hall.

“That way.”

“Thank you, Doctor.  This is Martinez and Scott.  I want you
to stay right behind Martinez while we’re moving.  And don’t forget what I said
about not using that weapon unless one of us tells you.”  She nodded and I led
the way she had pointed.

Martinez fell in behind me with Dr. Monroe on her heels,
Scott bringing up the rear.  The vaults were exactly that.  Vaults.  Heavy,
steel doors with combination locks and stout, chrome wheels sticking out of a
central bolt that operated the locking pins.  They were also clearly marked,
each door with a two foot tall label attached.  I was glad that Captain
Blanchard had been able to obtain the combo for our target.  I didn’t think we
had brought enough C-4 to blow one of these doors open.

We passed vault EE and came to a four way intersection. 
Signs on each corner pointed the way and I turned left after peeking into the
new hall to make sure there wasn’t a reception committee waiting for us.  The
first vault on our left was X, W a few feet farther on our right.  The door was
four feet wide and looked as substantial as anything I’d ever seen.  From the
outside it reminded me of the vault door in Fort Knox in the James Bond movie
Goldfinger.  Except this one had two large combination dials.  Shit.  I only
had one combination.  I waved the doctor forward to where I was standing.

“I have what I was told was the combo, but I only have one
combo.  What’s the deal?”  I asked, waving my hand at the door.

“You have the vault specific combination.  There are a few
vaults that require a second combination be dialed in by a facility
administrator.  Not surprising now that I know there are nuclear weapons in
there.”

“I don’t suppose you have that combination?”  It was more a
rhetorical question, and I wasn’t a bit surprised when she shook her head in
the negative.

I stood there looking at the door, thinking.  Other than the
combination dials and the big, chrome spoke wheel, the outside of the door was
completely smooth.  No hinges visible.  The door itself was flush and tight in
its frame, and I suspected it was probably at least a couple of feet thick.  No
way were we getting through that door by force. 

Giving up on the door, I started looking at the surrounding
walls and ceilings.  Was it possible?  Would they really have installed
multi-ton steel doors and left the walls un-armored?  This was the US government
we were talking about, so anything was possible.

Waving everyone back, I aimed my rifle a couple of feet to
the right of the door and fired two bursts into the wall.  The walls weren’t
soft drywall like in a normal office or home, rather smooth plaster over wooden
laths.  They had been built in a different era, and had been built tough and
intended to last.  But they couldn’t stand up to six rounds from an M4 rifle. 
The bullets punched through the shiny white surface, blasting chunks of plaster
loose.

Stepping up to the new hole, I unclipped the flashlight from
my rifle’s rail and shined it into the wall.  I could see the edge of the mounting
frame for the vault door, welded to a steel I-beam, but beyond that there was
nothing more than wood and plaster between me and the interior of the vault.  I
pulled out my Kukri and started hacking away at the wall, quickly breaking
through the plaster and lath on the hall side.  When I had a three foot wide by
five foot tall section chopped out of the way I called Scott over.

Behind the opening I had cut was wooden framing consisting
of four by six timbers.  Beyond them, the backside of the lath that finished
the inside of the vault was clearly visible.  I needed two of the vertical
framing timbers out of my way and hacking through them with my 12 inch machete
wasn’t a good option.  Scott had some C-4 plastic explosive in his pack which I
had him dig out for me, along with some detonators and a wireless trigger.  The
C-4 was in a long, ropelike tube, pre-formed to focus the energy of the
explosion towards whatever surface to which it was attached.  In other words, a
shaped breaching charge.

Cutting off four short lengths, I peeled the wax paper off
the adhesive and placed some at the top and bottom of each of the two timbers. 
Next I inserted the detonators, then we all moved down the hall and around the
corner.  I activated the trigger, hitting the ‘fire’ button with my thumb. 
There was a sharp clap as the C-4 detonated, the wall I was leaning against
vibrating for a moment.  I looked around the corner, but all I could see was a
cloud of dust filling the hallway.

“This is an old building.  How much asbestos you think just
got blown into the air?”  Scott asked, standing next to me looking at the dust
cloud.

 “You’re little Mary Fucking Sunshine, aren’t you?”  I
turned my head and looked at him.  Grinning, he went back to keeping watch on
our rear.

The ventilation in the hall was good, the dust cloud
clearing quickly.  One of the timbers had been neatly cut at each end and was
lying across the floor.  Shoving it out of the way with my foot, I looked in
the hole and saw the other one still attached by less than an inch wide sliver
of wood at the top.  The bottom was swinging free so I grabbed and pulled.  The
splinter snapped, the big board crashing to the floor.  I kicked it over next
to the first one, drew my Kukri and started breaking through the damaged lath
and plaster that formed the inside wall.  Less than a minute later I stepped
through the opening into the vault.