Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (28 page)

“Well it was like that. Bob’s Big Boy had one of his men
escort us across town to a second roadblock.” Out of habit born in the
apocalypse, Daymon checked all three of his mirrors.
Nothing to see
. “We
weren’t welcome. Bottom line.”

“You think they were flushed out? Had to make a run for it
... leave the safety and security of their town?”

Duncan grabbed his binoculars and glassed the bus. Then
scrutinized the advancing rotters.

“Well?” asked Lev.

A gust of wind rolled in from the east, carrying with it the
stomach-curdling stench of putrefying flesh. Duncan plugged his nose and said
nasally, “The bus is shot up. Dollars to doughnuts says they tangled with our
death-card-carrying enemies.”

“What makes you so sure?” asked Daymon, trying to suppress a
grin.

Still holding his nose and sounding like Fozzie Da Bear of
Muppets fame, Duncan replied, “Because the bullet holes are punched through the
roof of the bus. Speaks to an airborne assault.”

“Helicopters,” said Daymon and Lev in unison.

“X gets a square,” replied Duncan to a couple of confused
looks. “From an old game show ... ring a bell?”

Nothing. Lev and Daymon were speechless, shaking their
heads.

Suddenly, disrupting the uncomfortable silence, another wind
gust swept through, buffeting the vehicles and bringing with it a more
pronounced pong as well as a chorus of disconcerting moans.

Once the wind died down, Lev said, more statement than
question, “We’re not going any farther ... are we.”

“No need,” said Duncan. “Seal up your rigs and turn on your
AC. I figure we’ll sit here like a trio of egghead scientists and do some
observin’ ... see if we can detect some more of that ... what’d Lev call it?”
He cast a sidelong glance and saw Lev staring daggers at him, then, finishing
his sentence, said, “...
empirical evidence
.”

Chapter 40

The narrow two-lane passing itself off as a State Route
rambled on west by north. Cade looked off to the left at a wide creek bed full
of dry channels twisting and turning as far as the eye could see south,
presumably to where it merged with the always flowing Green River. He shifted
his gaze right for a second and regarded the frost-heaved blacktop, cracked and
pitted where it merged with a dirt shoulder barely wide enough to accommodate
even the smallest foreign import. A couple of feet beyond the shoulder was a
gently sloping dirt wall that he guessed eventually plateaued a mile east
behind Green River.

A quarter-mile due north of the I-70 juncture, Cade brought
the F-650 out of a right-hand turn and spotted the Raptor on the shoulder a
hundred yards distant. And Taryn was hanging from the window with a black
pistol in a two-handed grip, its business end pointed in his general direction.
Stabbing the brakes and maneuvering left of the dotted yellow, Cade saw
recognition dawn on her face and she lowered the weapon and slipped back inside
the cab.

Brook said, “Where’s Wilson?”

Cade pointed at the battered white guardrail a dozen yards
left of the Raptor. He said, “Right there,” just as Wilson emerged from the lee
side of the road, shoving a pistol near the small of his back, and, with a
sheepish look on his face, climbed over the barrier and onto the roadway.
Approaching Cade’s open window, he said, “Heard you coming ... only something
didn’t sound right.”

“Had her in a lower gear,” said Cade. He nodded at the
redhead’s hiding spot. “Setting up your own ambush now, eh?”

“You said not to call you on the radio unless it’s an
emergency.”

“Good job, Wilson. Now saddle up. I don’t think the folks in
the Hummer are the type to be deterred so easily. We need to hustle and find a
couple of stalls.”

Smiling inwardly from the unexpected praise, Wilson touched
his bandaged cheek and asked, “Whatcha got planned?”

“Just get in and tell Taryn to keep up.”

Wilson hustled around the front of both Fords and hopped
back inside the Raptor.

“What now?” asked Taryn as the passenger door thunked shut.

Wilson pointed at the F-650, already fifteen truck lengths
ahead, and said, “Just follow.”

***

Two miles north of the I-70 juncture they came upon a pair
of cars parked indiscriminately in the right lane. There was an older model
minivan, its sloped front end punched in, the chipped paint and rusted metal
indicative of a previous collision. Angled at a forty-five degree angle in
front of the van, and piled nearly as high with belongings, was a Ford Taurus
wagon with a hideously bloated Z still trapped behind the wheel.

Head on a swivel, taking in his surroundings, Cade braked
hard and stopped on the shoulder. The ridge that had been shadowing the
two-lane on the right was now just undulating desert peppered with
softball-sized rocks and scrub—terrain impassable by all but the heartiest
off-road vehicles. The creek bed on the left had wandered away farther west a
mile back; however, the rust-streaked steel guardrail remained.

“Perfect,” Cade exclaimed. He waved Taryn by on the left and
then made an abrupt K-turn in order to point his truck in the opposite
direction. He looked Brook in the eye and pointed down the center of the hood.
“Aim your rifle that way. I want you to shoot anything that moves.”

Brook nodded. Then admonished Raven, who had just popped her
head up, to lay flat on the seat.

Keeping the engine running but forgetting about his bad
ankle Cade leaped to the hot asphalt. Wincing, he caught Wilson’s eye as the
Raptor ground to a halt twenty feet away. Motioning for Wilson to join him, he
drew in a lungful of superheated air, clenched his jaw against the pain, and
charged around front of the F-650. Taking a knee, he ripped the all-weather
cover off of the winch. After twenty seconds spent learning the latching
mechanism, he released the tension, grabbed a handful of cable and, ignoring
the shooting pains, loped as fast as he could towards the Taurus. Wilson caught
up to him and skidded to a stop as he was wrapping the cable around the wagon’s
left front wheel. It wasn’t a AAA job but Cade figured it would do the trick.

“After I move this beast I need you to unhook the cable and
secure it to the van,” he told Wilson.

“Got it.”

“Three things,” added Cade. “Keep your ears open and eyes
down the road. Watch out for the cable. If it snaps it could whip around and
cut your head off. And if anyone shows up before we’re done, I want you to
empty your pistol into them. Remember this ... shoot the dead in the head. The
living ... center mass.”

“Copy that.”

Shooting the redhead a funny look, Cade pushed off the car’s
front bumper, stood, and hustled back to the F-650. Wasting no time, he slapped
the truck into Reverse and pulled the tension from the cable. Once it was
laser-straight between the two vehicles and twitching slightly under the
enormous strain, he goosed the throttle.

The Taurus’s front end slithered right, its tires scribing
the road with two identical stripes, coal-black like the light-absorbing marks
beneath a wide receiver’s eyes.

The Z inside moaned and pummeled the window as the Ford’s
tremendous low-end torque won out and the big truck angled the wagon into position
fully blocking the northbound lane. Then, to release tension on the cable, Cade
pulled the rig forward and waited for Wilson to do his part. He looked at his
Suunto and saw that a minute thirty of the imagined lead was already spent.

Another forty-five seconds slipped away by the time Wilson
was prostrate under the van’s front bumper.

Hurry up
, Cade thought. He then told Brook that if
the imagined pursuers did show up on scene, no matter what arrived she was to
take out the most distant of the vehicles. Then light up everything in-between.
Nodding, but a little distant in the eyes, she wrapped the strap around her
forearm and
snicked
the selector to Fire.

A minute later Wilson was scooting out of the way and
flashing a thumbs up.

Cade backed the slack out of the cable and, saying, “Go to
hell Mister Murphy,” stood on the throttle and held the wheel tight, watching
smoke emanate from the van’s locked-up wheels. A tick later and the old world
throwback to soccer moms and pussy-whipped dads everywhere was nosed up against
the guardrail. And wedged together, the two stalls formed an imperfect inverted
‘V.’ A five-ton metal chevron blocking the entire road.

“We have visitors,” bellowed Brook.

Hearing this, Wilson freed the cable from the van,
double-timed it to the Raptor and hopped inside. He grabbed his pistol in one
hand and the two-way in the other. Simultaneously powered down his window and
pressed the talk button and said, “Just say the word, Cade.”

“What word?” Brook answered back, the sound of a high
revving engine nearly drowning out her voice.

Wilson didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing.

And neither did Cade. His arms were half-raised in the
universal
it should be here somewhere
posture; he was looking for a way
to reel the cable in so it wouldn’t get hung up under the truck when Brook
said, “One step ahead of you.” She reached over and flicked a rocker switch on
the lower dash (right where the previous owner had decided it should be) and
then there was a corresponding sound up front and the metal hook began bouncing
and skittering and jangling against the roadway as the winch motor reeled it
back in.

Getting Wilson’s drift just as Cade initiated a high speed
J-turn, Brook scooped up her carbine and powered down her window glass.

Stopping in the midst of the turn, a rising plume of blue
smoke at the flat plane of the ‘J,’ passenger side facing south, Cade shot a
quick glance over his left shoulder at the Raptor angled nose in towards the
guardrail. What he saw was encouraging to say the least. Sasha was poking
Raven’s little Ruger 10-22 from the rear passenger window. In the driver’s
seat, Taryn was training her Beretta down range. And like Punxsutawney Phil
searching for his shadow, Wilson was standing straight in the cab, his upper
body protruding through the open moon roof. In his hand was the Beretta he’d
put to great use against the monsters outside the fence at the 4x4 shop but
only
so-so
against the group of Zs on the I-70 a short time ago.

Cade listened to the high-pitched exhaust notes
brapping
over the shallow ridgeline bordering the State Route south of them. The engines
were being worked hard, and however many vehicles he was hearing, the carried
sound said that they were drawing near.
Ninety seconds
, he thought,
while hoping the bandits were farther away than the engine noise indicated.

Starting a countdown in his head, he said, “Raven, pass me
the black case near your feet.” In his side vision he saw Brook, M4 steadied on
the oversized side-mirror. He also saw the trio in the Raptor maintaining their
vigilance, their weapons trained on the blind corner five hundred yards south.
A second later he had one end of the rigid case in his hands. “Thank you,
Raven,” he said with a forced smile. “Head down,
now
.” He opened the
door, lowered himself to the blacktop, rounded the front of the Ford and sat
cross-legged in the dirt on the shoulder. The hood would have been optimal as a
rest for the weapon but seeing as how the Ford’s hood came up to his chin, the
cross-legged stance he was taught in basic would have to suffice.

Seventy seconds.

Cade worked the latches and opened the lid. Inside, snugged
tight in charcoal-gray foam, were six items: a black bolt-action Remington MSR
(Modular Sniper Rifle) chambered for .338 Lapua, its multi-adjustable stock
collapsed and folded in on the weapon. Above the compact rifle, secured in a
cutout of its own, was a massive Leupold and Stevens high-powered scope. And
nestled in lengthwise next to the scope was a matte-black ten-inch Titan
suppressor. Lastly, below the rifle’s folded bi-pod, there were three magazines
riding in fitted compartments of their own, one already pre-loaded with ten
rounds. A habit normally not advisable for storage, but definitely called for
in times like these.

Sixty seconds
.

Going through a series of regularly practiced
steps—meticulous and precise like some kind of fraternal order ritual—he
carefully assembled the familiar weapon that he had already used to great
effect against the enemy more times than he cared to count. The stock folded
into place and locked with a soft
snik
. He placed the scope atop the
Picatinny rail, snugged down the quick release lever and removed the lens
protectors. Grabbed one of the fully loaded ten-round magazines and carefully
seated it into the magwell. Opting to forgo the suppressor, he closed the case
and slid it to his left.

Forty seconds.

He calmed his breathing and rested his elbows on his knees.
With the engine noise shattering the still air, he worked the recently oiled
bolt open and, behind a satisfying
click,
seated the first death-dealing
match-grade .338 round into the chamber.

Thirty seconds.

Five hundred yards with this weapon was almost overkill and
he didn’t have the time to judge windage or elevation, so he said a prayer and
snugged the rifle to his shoulder.

Twenty seconds.

He placed his cheek to the weld and focused on his
breathing. Started feeling himself going into the zone. And it was happening
faster than he had anticipated.

Fifteen seconds.

Three vehicles materialized around the bend, ghostly shapes
shimmering in a ground-hugging heat mirage. Instantly aware the road was
blocked, brakes were applied.

Cade drew up a tiny bit of trigger pull and studied the
vehicles as the drivers undertook frantic actions to slow and avoid a
collision. As he had guessed, the pursuers had opted to go with Japanese
imports. The first of which, he could see through the scope, was some kind of
performance model. Out back was a squared-off whale tail. Up front, on the
grill, was a constellation of stars and a slew of letters no doubt denoting a
certain track pedigree. Then, ignoring everything else, Cade settled the
crosshairs on the driver’s head, and dropped that a couple of inches, hoping
for an upper-center-mass hit. He saw the man’s startled expression morph to
full awareness of the predicament he had unwittingly gotten himself into. Fear
crossed his face next—presumably from a sudden understanding that there was
nowhere for him to maneuver to avoid the multiple weapons pointed in his
general direction.