Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (48 page)

But still a couple of other things nagged at him. One, the
base, purported to be nearby, should be attracting the dead like moths to a
flame. And two, though he wasn’t complaining—because one man, a pistol, and an
AK-47 were no match against a squad of soldiers—where in the hell were the patrols?
He hadn’t seen so much as a single Humvee or helicopter all day. Hell, this
close to a base of any size there should have been some kind of activity. A
mission or two outside the wire to forage for supplies or sweep for survivors.
He half-expected to see columns of black smoke presumably caused by some lowly
private setting fire to fifty-five-gallon drums containing diesel-soaked human
excrement. Or maybe the rising exhaust from tractors working hard to dig enough
holes in the ground to bury the infected. Even the fools at Schriever were
running similar operations during every second of available daylight.

Then he had a fleeting thought. Maybe he’d followed the
directions wrong. Given what little he knew of the technology involved, it
still seemed next to impossible to him that a satellite overhead beaming
directions straight into the navigation box would have led him off course.

So he got up for a second and meandered to the tiny bathroom
and dropped a load. “Fuck,” he bellowed. “No ass wipes.”
Look before you
leap, genius
. He punched a hole in the lathe and plaster wall and then
finished the necessary task with his left hand. Considering that he’d been
rooting around elbows deep inside infected cadavers just a few days ago, being
soiled with a little of his own shit was no big thing.

Walking a little funny, he went back to the window and
retook his perch. He glanced at his watch and smiled wide and then resumed his
lonely vigil with a giddy anticipation welling within him.

Chapter 75

With the moans of the pursuing dead rising in the
background, the four-man team scaled the steps in single file. In wispy flowing
font, the word
Whitetail
was etched in the glass atop the massive oak
double doors, and when Cade reached out to grab the wrought iron pull the
opposing door swung slowly inward. In disbelief, Cade stepped back and leveled
his Glock at the figure responsible.

Empirical evidence
, thought Daymon as he halted on
the second step and gaped at the sad sight staggering from the gloom.

Still recoiling from the sudden start, Cade first noticed
the unmistakable smell of bourbon and then took note of the pair of hands
reaching out for him. They were large and calloused, probably scarred from a
lifetime of manual labor. Then, shaking mightily, they beckoned him inside with
a sweeping motion.

Still in sort of a daze and with blood trickling into his
eyes as a result of the near scalping, Daymon drew back a few pounds of trigger
pull and sidestepped Cade to get a better angle. Suddenly Cade blurted out, “Hold
fire.”

Your lucky day, dude
, thought Daymon, lowering the
bow.

One at a time, a little jumpy and still full of adrenaline
from the recent brush with death, the makeshift team followed the obviously
inebriated man. Once over the threshold and acting purely on survival instinct,
Lev and Daymon pushed past him and rushed into the circular foyer. Lev called
out “Clear!” and then the two fanned out, poking their heads into each
individual room and making sure they were indeed alone.

Meanwhile Duncan closed the front doors, reached into a
nearby display and grabbed a handful of graphite shafted
clubs—five-hundred-dollar drivers with ridiculously large heads. Feeling
something heavy impact the door, he quickly slipped a number of clubs through
the interior door pulls, his way of augmenting the single deadbolt.

In seconds, Lev and Daymon had returned from their cursory
recon and had taken station next to Duncan, who was listening with amusement as
presumably the last remaining denizen of Whitetail Country Club offered them
all a warm yet rather incoherent welcome.

Lev handed the Glock back to Cade, who was listening and
trying to mine pertinent details from the man’s rambling narrative.

Accepting the Glock, Cade swapped magazines and checked the
chamber. Loaded. After looking around the entry, Cade locked eyes with the
blabbering fella and asked him his name.

“Walter,” replied the man, casting his gaze through a grand
arched doorway towards the deeply polished mahogany bar beyond. “I used to keep
the greens. Now I
own
the joint.”

Cade looked the drunk in the eyes and said slowly, “Pleased
to meet you, Walter. Lovely joint you have here.” Then he asked the next
question even more slowly, but with an added measure of authority. “Do you have
keys to
any
of the cars in the lot?”

The man processed the question for a long while, during
which Cade could almost hear the gears working inside his booze-soaked gray
matter. Finally, while heavily slurring his words, the man said, “Hell no. I’m
not giving up my car keys. I’ve only had one or two tonight, officer.”

Taking a different tack, Daymon crowded in, bloody face and
all, and said in as nice a tone as he could muster, “I need to get to the
hospital. Will you drive me?”

Something clicked and the man staggered across the foyer and
into the bar area. In a few moments, with a jangling noise preceding him, he
returned and shook the keys at eye level and said, “Let’s go.”

While he was gone, the entry doors had started to tremor
slightly. Then the golf clubs shoring them up began to rattle, the vibrating
alloy heads producing a tinny resonance.

After snatching the keys from the man’s grasp, Cade rifled
through them and found what looked like an ignition key. Only it was a basic
black, probably a backup cut by Ace Hardware and not behind the dealer’s
counter. Therefore there was no proprietary logo stamped there. So Cade asked
the man what kind of car he drove.

Thinking hard, the man looked at the rafters and ran his
hands through oily slicked-back hair. A tick later there was a flash of
recognition in his eyes and, still slurring his words, he replied, “Yes. It’s
parked around back.”

No help
, thought Cade. He said, “You stay in here.
We’ll come back later and shoot the shit. Maybe even tip back a nightcap with
you.”

His face lighting up behind already reddened cheeks, the man
said, “Perfect. I’ll be waiting with shots lined up.” Then he looked Daymon in
the face, swiped a finger through a rivulet of blood there and said, “You
better go to a hospital. I can drive you.”

At once four resounding
No’s
echoed through the
overhead beams.

Keys in one hand, Glock in the other, Cade hurried through
the foyer and threaded his way between the white linen-shrouded tables of what
had once been a four- or five-star restaurant. With the others close behind, he
negotiated the kitchen, passed through a narrow dish room clad all in stainless
steel, and then found the back door which he guessed led to a receiving area
where there just might be a vehicle waiting.

And there was. A quick peek through the peephole showed the
distorted image of a boxy SUV-looking thing. So they moved what seemed like a
hundred pounds of boxed russet potatoes blocking the door and tugged it inward.

Glock leading the way, Cade stepped out first. He looked
left then right and called out, “Clear.” As the others filed out behind him, he
lowered his body from the loading dock to the grease-stained parking pad and
made his way to the vehicle.

Stumbling over one of the Simplot boxes, Duncan made his way
through the door and onto the loading dock. Daymon emerged next and when he saw
the vehicle he threw his arms up in disgust and said, “Pontiac Aztek. You have
got to be shitting me.”

After instructing Walter to shore the door with the boxes of
potatoes, Lev threw the lock and closed it behind them. He passed by Daymon and
said, “Wheels are wheels.”

There was no alarm fob so Cade tested the key in the rear
hatch first.
Success
. He placed his ruck inside and circled around,
opening the other doors along the way. Completing the circuit, he placed his M4
in the footwell, Glock on the dash, and slipped behind the wheel. In no time
the others had stowed their gear and the hatch was shut and Cade had coaxed
life out of the engine. A beat later he found Reverse with the shifter and was
backing rapidly out of the confined space.

After pulling a quick J-turn, as a courtesy to Walter, Cade
wheeled the man’s ride around front, passed underneath the covered valet area
and brought the Aztek to a halt. He rolled down his window and whistled and
cat-called to the gathered dead pressing on the double doors. After acquiring
their undivided attention, he proceeded east with the needle barely registering
a numerical speed on the gauge.

With the Pontiac’s back end just out of their reach and the
radials clicking a slow steady cadence against the pavers, all two dozen
staggering messes gave slow speed pursuit.

Chapter 76

Contrary to Daymon’s opinion, Cade found the Aztek, although
a hell of an eyesore, to be a fairly capable ride. With four adults and all
their gear and guns it was cramped inside for sure. And come to think of it,
kind of squeaky and rattily. But capable nonetheless.

After goading the undead into the unwinnable goose chase and
keeping them enticed until the clubhouse was out of sight (and hopefully out of
mind), Cade sped up and drove east through the parking lot and past a dozen
luxury sedans.

At the entrance, he turned right and jinked the ride around
a pair of doddering first turns and continued east, still negotiating the golf
course roads for a spell, then passed by an algae-choked water feature, its
aerial display fountain no longer in business. Finally they came to a stop sign
at a ‘T’ with one of McCall’s four-lane arterials. There, Cade consulted his
mental map while watching a trio of dead wade after the geese floating in the
dormant water feature. Finally after a long pause, during which the Aztek’s
engine purred quietly, he hung a left, once again sending them on a winding
northeasterly tangent on Boyostun Drive through a verdant canyon of pines
blocking their view of the lake to the right.

After five minutes on Boyostun, Daymon broke the silence and
called out from the back seat, “Why are you keeping us in the dark, Boss?”

Cade said, “I’m just trying to maintain focus. That’s all.”

Stopping short of delivering an elbow, Duncan turned towards
Daymon and said, “Let the man work, would ya? He saved our collective asses
back there on the links.”

Recalling how Duncan had sprung into action, saving his ass
with three perfectly placed shotgun blasts—all without hurting an additional
hair on his head—Daymon decided to practice what Heidi liked to preach and quit
sweating the small stuff. “My bad,” he said.

With the Panasonic on his lap and hinged open on his lap,
Lev zoomed the satellite image in a couple of stops. After tilting the screen
to get a better viewing angle, he read one of the notations on the overlay and
said, “We’re looking for Sylvan Beach. It’ll be on the right ... a couple of
miles ahead.”

Dabbing his head wound with a swatch torn from his
tee-shirt, Daymon instantly forgot his previous pledge to self and asked Lev,
“What’s at Sylvan Beach?”

“I’m not in Cade’s head ... but from what I see here I’m
guessing that’s where we’re going to cross the lake.”

Cade nodded, then gazed right and noticed shadows darken the
lake’s surface as the sun slipped behind the peaks to the west.

Daymon said, “We’ll be sitting ducks crossing before dark.”

“It’ll be OK. Besides ... they won’t be expecting callers,”
drawled Duncan. He looked at the driver. “Right, Delta?”

Keeping his eyes on the road, Cade said, “Affirmative.” Then
suddenly a little worry slipped through his self-imposed mental barrier. His
thoughts raced. In them Brook was mourning him. Then, as if in a time machine,
the vision fast forwarded and Raven was grown and seemingly surviving the
apocalypse on her own. Snapping him back to present, Lev said, “Sylvan Beach
... next right.”

Seeing that their encounters with the walking dead had
fallen off substantially the farther north they travelled, Cade decided to
ditch the Aztec here, a quarter mile short, in order to assure a stealthy
approach. “Lock and load,” he said. He pulled into the nearest side road where
a hundred yards east the massive rear facade of a two-story house blocked most
of the lake view.

Once again they donned helmets and packs and inspected their
weapons. Once again Cade handed Lev the suppressed Glock and then unslung his
suppressed M4. Staying inside the tree line, they cut through a handful of
yards and were at the Sylvan Beach parking lot in a little under ten minutes.

Stopping at the south end of the parking lot, Cade knelt
down next to an overflowing garbage can, wrestled the Bushnell’s from his pack,
and surveyed the scene. To his left, beyond a picket of broadleaf trees, he saw
a couple of red clay tennis courts. Dead ahead there was a public use restroom
built of cinderblocks and painted a bland shade of yellow. Arranged outwards
from the structure, like the spokes of a wheel, were a contingent of
hunter-green picnic tables. To the right of the bathrooms, stretching nearly to
the lake’s edge, was a very large swimming pool surrounded by a built-up wooden
deck, its still waters slightly murky with algae. And beyond the pool, across a
couple of hundred yards of open water, was the tip of the heavily wooded
peninsula he’d so far seen only in the overhead image.

Glassing the gently curved stretch of beach ahead, Cade
spotted the two things that had piqued his interest in the satellite image.
Stretching a dozen yards out over the water and built up on telephone pole
pilings was a stark-white dock. Tied up and bobbing on the water on its lee
side was some kind of low-to-the-water two-man power boat, a giant
chrome-plated engine sitting out back. Closer in still, upside down on the
sand, were a dozen wooden rowboats identical in style and size, but varying
vastly in color. Cade guessed they were most likely rented out to the throngs
of tourists either by the day or smaller increments thereof.