Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (12 page)

“Wish you could talk,” said Cade. “Let us know how many are
inside.”
One way in.
No problem, assuming the building was a giant
open-concept rectangle and not partitioned into multiple interior spaces, the
latter of which Cade knew was probably the case. So he held the knob and tapped
on the window. Soft at first.
Nothing.
He looked at Raven, arched a brow
and shrugged his shoulders as if to say all in a day’s work. And because he
knew a little conditioning went a long way, he motioned her in closer.

Shaking her head and mouthing, “It’s too soon,” Brook stared
daggers at the hobbled operator as her only daughter, her only connection to
the old world, did as she was told and inched closer, a knuckle-white grip on
her rifle.

Taryn whispered, “What’s he doing?”

Holding his bat at port arms, Wilson looked at her and
shrugged.

“Sasha ... come here,” said Cade. “Let’s get in touch with
that healthy kind of fear.”

Ashen-faced and shaking her head, Sasha shrank behind
Wilson.

“Cade, no. Not now.”

All eyes went to Brook.

“When, then?” he asked. “After we’ve fallen? I hope not
because that
when
will be too late.” Trying to force the issue, he
decided to go the divide and conquer route. He hated to do it but knew that it
was for the good of the group. So under Brook’s watchful eye, he held the
suppressed Glock out butt first. “Take this,” he said to Wilson. “It’s loaded.
The safety is located on the trigger. Keep your finger out of the guard and off
the trigger until you are ready to fire.”

Gesturing towards the weapon, palms upturned, shoulders
drawn halfway to his ears, Wilson asked, “What do you want
me
to do with
it?”

“I want
you
and
Taryn
to go over to that gate
we just came through ...” He pointed at the gathering dead, “... and kill every
last one of those things. You have sixteen bullets. One in the pipe and fifteen
in the magazine. Why don’t you two make it a competition. Share the weapon and
see who scores the most kills with their eight rounds.”

Wilson stared, speechless. Taryn, however, stepped forward
and took the weapon. Held it tentatively, like it was a baby bird and crushing
it was a possibility. With the suppressor pointed groundward, she tightened her
grip, turned, and walked purposefully towards the gate. Three seconds after
being upstaged by a girl, Wilson’s balls dropped and he trotted after.

Two birds with one stone,
thought Cade. He faced
Brook, winked, and said over his shoulder, “Let’s go, girls.” He pushed the door
open and nearly tripped over Max as he bolted through the sliver of daylight.
Sweeping his eyes right to left, Cade crossed the threshold into the retail
area of the store, Glock 19 leading the way.

The air inside had that new car smell. Mainly tire rubber
and plastics that partially masked an underlying odor of death. The causation
of the latter, Cade guessed, would probably be found beyond the battered gray
door which, apart from the three roller doors outside, seemed to be the only
other point of entry to the garage where all of the customization took place.

But first things first
, he thought. Straight ahead,
illuminated fully by the eight-by-eight bar of light angling in through the
skylight, was an L-shaped counter. On the glass surface were a number of
telephone-book-sized catalogs, one still cracked open as if someone had just
been looking up a part number. And plastering the wall behind the checkout
stand were a number of glossy photos of all types of 4x4 pick-ups and SUVs—not
one of them close to being as capable as the F-650 out in the parking lot. Cade
retrieved his tactical flashlight from a pocket and thumbed it on. Recalling
the SMS message he’d gotten from Daymon, he opened the nearest drawer and shone
the harsh blue-white beam on its contents.
Nothing.
He moved on down the
counter and struck out twice more, finding only pens and business cards mixed
in with stacks of aftermarket wheel and off-road tire brochures. Finally,
inside the third drawer, he found what he was looking for and quickly pocketed
the items.

With Brook, Raven, and Sasha looking on, he closed the
drawer, stepped from behind the counter, and swept the beam around the vast
showroom. The windowless cinderblock walls were cream-colored and the rows of
tires lining them seemed to go on forever. He peered down the right side and
saw nothing lurking there. Peeked over his shoulder at Raven who was sticking
to him like glue, and said, “Clear.” Sensing the scrutiny, she looked up at
him, caught his eye and nodded as if saying she was OK with all of this. Next,
he shifted his gaze to Sasha, who was six times whiter than normal.

Head swiveling forward, Cade went into a combat crouch and
listened hard, focusing all of his attention towards the back of the store.
“Anyone else hear that?” he asked.

Bravely poking her head around her dad, Raven said, “Yeah
... kind of. What is it?”

Cade glanced back to verify that she was carrying her rifle
safely. Satisfied with what he saw, he whispered, “Can’t be sure. Sounds like
something scratching to get out.” For a split second he flashed back to the
two-story farmhouse in Hanna. Trapped in the dark, overwhelmed by the wafting
stench of the dead—and the non-stop sound of nails scratching on
hundred-year-old bead board. With a frigid current tracing his spine, he met
Brook’s eyes and a silent message passed between them. She nodded, raised the
carbine across her chest with a finger on the trigger guard, and set out for
the aisle paralleling the far left wall.

Then the noise came again, but this time it echoed down the
centermost aisle.

With a granite set to his jaw, Cade said, “Be ready. It’s on
the move and knows we are here.” He swept the cone of light over stacks and
rows of aftermarket wheels and tires. Illuminated a wall of shock absorbers,
their garish-colored dust covers contrasting markedly against the dark brown
pegboard display. Bracing the hand with the Glock over the wrist of his left
hand which was holding the tactical flashlight, he shone the beam on the far
aisle and crabbed to his right.

Though they could see nothing moving—not even a shadow to
give the offending creature’s position away— the sound, now more of a rapid
clicking, grew nearer.

Behind him, Cade could hear Raven breathing hard. Then,
shattering the still, Sasha started screaming. A hair-raising peal amplified by
the cramped quarters and low ceiling.

Reacting instantly, Brook let her carbine fall slack on its
sling, took a quick step forward and wrapped her toned arm around the
hysterical teen’s slender shoulders. After a brief struggle, Brook managed to
clamp her hand down hard over Sasha’s mouth. Shaking her head to show her
displeasure, Brook met Cade’s eyes and pulled Sasha’s shaking frame in close
and whispered next to her ear, “Pull it together or you’re going to get us all
killed.”

Save for the stress-induced labored breathing of the group
there was no more sound. Even the clicking had now ceased.
Strange
,
thought Cade. There was none of the usual shuffling or moaning indicating they
were sharing the 4x4 shop with one or more of the dead. And it stayed like this
for a few long beats. Then the clicking started up again. Like a car’s hot
exhaust system cooling off. Softly at first and then louder, finally Max
emerged from the catacombs, his overgrown nails raking the cement floor.
Oblivious to the heightened state of tension that he had brought on the group,
he sat on his haunches and regarded Cade with his dual-colored eyes.

Meeting the dog’s gaze, Cade lowered his pistol and asked
sarcastically, “All clear, buddy?”

Replying with a gaping yawn, Max rolled onto his side and
exposed his multi-colored belly.

“False alarm,” said Cade over his shoulder. “But way to go,
Raven.” He regarded her and then met Brook’s eyes and winked. “I’m very proud
of how you held it together. And Sasha ...” He removed his ball cap. Ran a hand
through his lengthening hair. “We can’t have that happen ever again.”

Releasing her grip on Sasha who was nodding and still a
little wild in the eye, Brook wiped the spittle from her hand onto her pants
and said to Max, “I’m beginning to regret that I let Raven bring you home.”

Knowing that nothing good would come from arguing a valid
point, wisely, Raven made no reply.

“Come on girls. We’ve got to get this done so we can get
back on the road,” Cade said as he advanced past Max, ignoring him completely.
Then, with the business end of the Glock following his gaze, he stepped quietly
sideways, favoring his left ankle the entire way. He padded a dozen feet
forward and the same distance to his right. Then, in a slow deliberate manner,
he cleared each aisle, passing the flashlight’s beam over the rows of
vertically stocked air cleaners and oil filters and other parts needed to keep
a vehicle running. After finishing his serpentine round-trip recon of the back
two-thirds of the shop, he stopped front and center of the abused steel door
and looked through the window into the fully illuminated garage. He walked his
gaze around the gymnasium-sized structure and saw two things he’d expected to
find and one that he had not. “Stay here,” he said. He handed the flashlight to
Raven, opened the door a crack, and slipped inside.

Chapter 19

As Taryn leveled the Glock, lining up the front and rear
sights just as she’d been taught by Brook, her hand began to waver. It started
as a little tremor that quickly became a full-blown twitch, causing the
silencer to move in slow concentric circles as she fought its weight and her
nerves to keep her aim on the zombie. And the longer she held the pistol at
arm’s length thinking about whom the undead elderly woman had been in life, the
more pronounced her aiming problem became.

“Am I going to have to draw
first blood
?” asked
Wilson, who was standing a few feet to the left and slightly behind the
raven-haired nineteen-year-old.

“Do not patronize me, Wilson. I’ve got to get used to
shooting these things sooner or later.” Suddenly Taryn imagined the zombie
clutching the fence in front of her minus the gaunt face and missing ear and
purple-ridged bite wound to the neck. In her mind’s eye she saw the woman
rosy-cheeked, wispy white hair pulled back into a neat bun, and offering
chocolate chip cookies to a couple of excited grandkids.

But that was not the case now. A guttural growl snapped
Taryn to the present. Stalling for more time, she looked over her shoulder and
asked, “Where the eff did you come up with that corny expression?”

“Some ancient movie that my mom and I watched together about
five years ago. An action flick about some guy named Rambo who liked to shoot a
big machine gun one-handed ...”

“A silent scream, his face all contorted in slow motion ...
yeah, I remember Rambo,” replied Taryn, a smile creasing her face. “Me and my
father watched it one night when Mom was out late. One night of many—” Her face
went slack and her grip tightened on the Glock. She was no longer clutching the
baby bird gently ... she was crushing the life from it. And anticipating the
report before depressing the trigger, she forgot everything Brook had passed on
to her and did what most novice shooters do—she closed her eyes and jerked the
trigger. The former happened so fast it had no effect on her aim. The latter,
however, caused her to pull the muzzle down and to the right by a degree.

Contrary to Taryn’s initial assumption, no great explosion
occurred. It was more like a soft pop that dissipated even before the brass
tinged against the asphalt. The devastation, however, was greater than she had
anticipated—especially with this kind of close proximity.
No going back now
,
she thought, opening her eyes just in time to appreciate every gory detail.
There was the soft smack of the 9mm bullet striking Grandma below the left
cheekbone. Then the energy from the speeding projectile whipping the undead
geriatric’s head left and sending a fist-sized flap of cheek and connecting tissue
and muscle spinning away like a clay pigeon. But as expected, the zombie didn’t
fall. Instead the opposite happened. Excited by the proximity to fresh meat and
the sudden silenced report, the clutch of undead behind the still-moving corpse
drove it forward, pinning it against the cyclone fencing. Then the unrelenting
press of the dozen-plus walking cadavers caused the unthinkable to happen:
Grandma’s distended belly split open like an overcooked brat, sending intestine
and bile and the remnants of presumably its last victim shooting through the
fence and directly at Taryn.

Backpedaling and puking a torrent of partially digested MRE
pound cake, Taryn instinctively fought back by squeezing off two additional
shots to no great effect. Breathing hard, she set the pistol down and dragged a
forearm across her mouth. Suddenly aware of the rancid-smelling gore soiling
her shirt, she tugged it away from her skin and said rapid-fire, “Fuck, fuck,
fuck.” Still cursing, she stripped the top off completely and threw it on the
ground next to the Glock. Then, standing in the warm sun wearing only Multicam
pants and a black bra, she snorted and began to laugh.

Seeing this, Wilson sat down hard on the cracked and pitted
blacktop and grabbed his sides. Then, in between snorts of his own, he said,
“Minus the projectile vomiting and minor striptease act, you looked a little
bit like Rambo yourself.”

Taryn snatched up the Glock and subconsciously adjusted her
bra strap. Fixing a glare on the dead, she said, “You haven’t seen the half of
it.” She tiptoed through the splattered guts and arrived at the fence, Glock in
a firm two-handed grip, unwavering. Then, possessing a newly forged demeanor,
she put one round into Grandma’s head and five more into the throng of monsters
grinding the pinned corpse against the fence.