District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (29 page)

The rain was coming at Daymon sideways when he exited the
warm Chevy—yet again—to open the main gate. He thought about having Foley get
out into the worsening weather, but quickly decided that after the way he
treated Oliver the day before, delegating the task to Jimmy would be seen as a
major dick move. Perceptions aside, when it got right down to it, it just
seemed logical he be the one after already enduring the driving rain at the middle
gate to let the other three vehicles pass through.

Now, as he stood on 39 waiting for the rigs to cross the
threshold one last time so that he could close the camouflaged main gate, the
ramifications of his benevolent decision had become abundantly clear. His pants
were soaked from mid-thigh down and beginning to feel as heavy and ungainly as
his old firefighting turnout gear. And adding insult to injury, a steady
trickle of water was wicking off his stocking cap and taking a direct route
under his jacket collar, down his spine, and between his butt cheeks.

The saving grace, he thought as he closed and locked the
gate, was that his well-oiled cork boots and Day-Glo parka he’d taken off the
mannequin at the ski hill had kept him warm where it mattered most.

Planting his feet a shoulder’s width apart, he bent over by
the driver’s door and shook his head vigorously in an attempt to wick the
beaded water off his hat and the ends of his dreads protruding from underneath
it. Feeling like a waterlogged dog, he climbed behind the Chevy’s wheel and led
the four-vehicle convoy west, toward the fallen tree roadblock.

***

Five minutes had elapsed since getting back into the truck
with Foley and still Daymon hadn’t said a word. He negotiated the final turn
before the roadblock and saw that they had company. Where there were usually
less than a half-dozen rotters that had met the impasse and remained there
milling about the road, there were now more than a dozen. So he swung the truck
into a wide one-eighty and parked it a good fifty yards from the zombies, while
leaving enough room for the rest of the convoy to follow suit and park single
file behind him.

Foley grabbed his carbine. “I’m going,” he insisted.

Daymon threw the transmission into Park and silenced the
engine.

“No need to do it with that,” he said. “Reach back and grab
me my bow.”

Foley unbuckled and twisted around in his seat. “I don’t see
it.”

“Probably in the bed,” Daymon guessed. “Here, use this.” He
unsheathed Kindness and handed the machete to Foley. “We save the bullets for
the living.”

“Or a last stand against the dead,” added Foley.

Stepping to the road, Daymon said, “The man has a point.” He
closed his door and peered over the bed rail and saw only gas cans, the Stihl
chainsaw, a worn yellow tow strap, and his Kelty backpack, which, like him, was
thoroughly soaked. “Fucker took it.”

“Your bow?”

“Yeah,” Daymon spat. “Thing never left this truck.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” Daymon kicked the Chevy’s rear tire.

“Take this,” Foley said, handing the machete back. “I’ll use
mine.” He took a long-bladed dagger from the sheath on his hip.

“That’ll do,” Daymon said, admiring Foley’s pig sticker.
“Let’s get this over with.” He strode to the centerline, head bowed against the
stinging rain which was showing no sign of letting up.

Doors on the other trucks hinged open and soon the group was
assembled in the middle of 39, all armed with blades save for Jamie, who was
brandishing her tomahawk.

It took the dead some time to get oriented to the newly
arrived meat. A female had become inexplicably stuck to the fallen tree
blocking the road and was snarling and marching in place, the jagged bough
lodged in her exposed ribs not wanting to let go.

By the time the Eden survivors had halved the distance to
the rotters, the rain had slackened off and the dead were spread out across the
road, each one seemingly homing in on a different survivor. The waterlogged
monsters were a mixture of first turns and fresh kills, the latter of which
were weighted down in soaked cold weather gear and most likely had fallen
victim to attack sometime before the recent snow event, when, like now, though
the temperature was only in the mid-fifties, the Zs were still mobile enough to
pose a threat in large numbers.

Taking the left flank, Jamie waded into the periphery, war
hawk scything the air. Responsible for dropping two first turns of her own, she
stepped over their frail unmoving bodies and began calling out to the others
from behind, an act that slowed their march and started them stutter-stepping,
unsure which one of the survivors to stalk.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Foley approached two
rotters from behind and, one at a time, quickly sank his dagger to the hilt at
the base of their necks, only a couple of seconds separating each surprise
attack.

Even Wilson wetted his blade, but not without tripping over
Taryn’s first kill of the day and finding himself draped by a rotting corpse
and having to twist away from the snapping teeth while burying his knife blade
in its eye socket.

When all was said and done, Daymon was standing among a
quartet of headless, prostrate corpses whose blood was mixing with the
rainwater and streaming in thick red rivulets to the nearby ditch.

“You’re cutting it too close, Wilson,” said Duncan from the
far shoulder where he had already deposited his one and only kill, an awfully
emaciated teenaged Z, likely a female from the looks of its tattered skin-tight
denim shorts. “Watch what Taryn does. She doesn’t rush in.” He paused for a
beat and regarded the others as they started off toward the wall of fallen
trees. “Just let ‘em come to you,” he added, nearly whispering. “Measure their
speed, then …
boom
!”—Wilson nearly jumped out of his boots—“you’ve got
yerself a twice dead rotter. And you know what they say about rotters?”

Looking sheepish, Wilson shrugged.

“The only good rotter is a dead rotter. Don’t you forget
that, Wilson.”

Cheeks nearly as red as his hair and thinking maybe Duncan
had taken to the drink again, Wilson merely nodded in agreement. “I’ll reign in
my enthusiasm,” he said, tongue firmly planted in cheek. Wiping away the putrid
skin and flesh that had sloughed off the Z and soiled his jacket, he hustled to
catch up with the others.

***

Ten minutes spent scouring the woods on either side of the
road produced no bike, no Oliver, and no signs he had come this way. There were
no new boot prints along the muddy trail west of the block, either. The only
indication that someone had transited it were the water-filled impressions, all
eastbound, and, in Daymon’s opinion, all several days old.

“Nothing here,” Duncan called from the north side of 39.

Lev and Jamie were standing atop a fallen Douglas Fir. It
was an amazing specimen, bigger around than any one of them could reach, and
bristling with upthrust needless branches. One hand gripping a stunted bough
for balance, Lev pressed a pair of Bushnell binoculars to his eyes and studied
the narrow, cement bridge beyond the roadblock. “The vehicles are still there,”
he said. “There are also thirty or so rotters.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, I
see no sign of Oliver or the bike.”

“He went east, then,” Duncan stated confidently. Shotgun
slung on a shoulder and banging his hip, he approached Daymon. “Any idea
why
our resident hiker would want to go east? His childhood home is in Huntsville.”

“The ski hill is there, too,” added Jamie. “I’ve never seen
a couple of guys happier than when you two returned from your disappearing
act.”

“They were high on pot,” Taryn said flatly.

Changing the subject, Daymon said, “I have a good idea where
he went. Load up.”

Duncan leaned against the fallen timber. “Care to share?”

“Not really,” Daymon replied. “Just trust and follow.”

“Easier said than done,” Duncan replied. “Good thing for you
that I’m easy like a Monday morning.” Humming the tune of the same name, he
pushed off the tree with a guttural oomph and started a slow walk along the
blood- and gore-slickened highway.

Duncan watched with interest as Daymon pulled even with an
ordinary-looking pasture gate. Since there had been no sign of Oliver’s passage
at the quarry entrances—upper and lower—he highly doubted this side trip of
Daymon’s was going to bear fruit. Just looking at the single-lane drive with
its mohawk of tall grass growing between the two muddy ruts made him think it
laughable that anyone would have a reason to go down the road Daymon was
preparing to lead them.

After inspecting the ground around the entry, Daymon
unwrapped a chain and pulled the steel tube gate toward him.

Duncan recognized the style: four horizontal bars
intersected by more of the same running diagonal between them. Sheep gate was
what he’d heard them called. He looked beyond the road and saw brambles and
what could be walnut trees. Nothing he saw suggested the tree-choked acreage
ever supported sheep or livestock.

“You want us all to follow?”

“I was hoping you would,” Daymon answered, climbing into his
pickup.

“These rigs might make it down the road,” Duncan noted. “But
where’re we going to turn ‘em around?”

Daymon closed his door. “You’d be surprised. Just follow …
it’ll be a quick in and out.” He pointed at Lev in the F-650 bringing up the
rear. “Close and chain the gate after.”

“You sure about this?” Foley asked as Daymon pulled onto the
feeder road.

“Positive.”

***

Three minutes after pulling off of the paved single-lane and
onto the gravel feeder road, all four pickups were parked in the huge circular
turnaround fronting the stone and timber home.

Duncan was first out. He paced to the bottom of the first
run of stairs leading up to the multi-story mini-mansion and whistled.
“Snowbasin, eat your heart out.” Finished ogling the structure, he turned and
walked the twenty yards or so to the basketball court. He halted at center
court and turned a full circle, eyeballing the pair of regulation standards
sprouting from the smooth asphalt at either baseline.

Carrying a carbine one-handed and working his way toward the
north side of the house, Daymon said, “Nice setup, huh?”

“Three-quarter court?”

Grinning, Daymon replied, “Full size … it’s longer than the
RV they had parked next to it.”

Duncan nodded. “Who’s
they
?”

Daymon shrugged as if to say
beats me
.

“Wish I had a ball,” Wilson said.

Daymon stopped in his tracks and regarded the redhead, one
brow arched. “You got game?”

“I was a high school starter. So, yeah … I’d say I have
game
.”

“We’ll have to find out some day.”

Still sitting in the F-650, Lev asked why they were here.

Daymon explained how he found the place and what he had
planned for it.

“You two are going to be rural Utah’s Bill and Melinda Gates,”
Duncan quipped. “If Dregan is the
Natural Gas King
of the area … what’s
your title gonna be?”

“Claustrophobic in recovery. Sure you can relate,” said
Daymon. “I’ll be right back.”

Suddenly gone serious, Duncan looked to Wilson and Taryn.
“You two watch the road.”

Hustling to Daymon’s side, Foley announced he was coming
along.

“Suit yourself,” Daymon said, picking up his pace.

Once the pair had rounded the corner and were walking in the
shadow of the massive multi-car garage, Foley cleared his throat theatrically.
He removed his worn ball cap and ran a hand through his thinning hair.

“You got something to say?”

“What was up with the chained-up Z beside the road?”

“He’s my watch rotter,” Daymon replied as he mounted the
stairs to the side door.

“You chained him up there?”

“Yep,” Daymon said, running his hand around the doorjamb.

“That’s kind of a dick move.”

Daymon turned on the stair and peered down at Foley.
Was
the guy a mind reader or some shit?

“But it’s an effective dick move,” Daymon conceded. “What
should I do? Put it out of its misery? It’s no longer human.”

“It was someone’s son or brother. Some little kid probably
called him Daddy before all of this.”

Daymon nodded.
Time to lead by example
, he told
himself. He inspected the Welcome mat then looked through the window and
scrutinized the contents of the mud room.

“Well?”

“Oliver’s not here,” Daymon stated confidently. “And he
hasn’t been here, either. The door mat is exactly as I left it.” Without
meeting Foley’s gaze, he turned and tromped down the stairs, brushing past the
shorter man.

Back at the circular drive, Daymon reported his findings to
the others.

Duncan raised a hand and spun it clockwise, finger cutting
the air. “North it is, then. Mount up troops.” He looked to Daymon. “Can I have
a word with you, please?”

Sighing audibly and feeling like a kid being called out in
front of the entire class, Daymon looked a question at his friend.

“The rotter by the road?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Daymon replied, hauling his door open. “I’ll
take care of it.” He climbed behind the wheel and buckled in.

“Good on you,” Foley said, hauling his shoulder belt on.
“Maybe Dregan knows where to get a dog.”

“Maybe,” Daymon replied. He waited for the others to mount
up, then fired up his Chevy and dropped it into gear.

***

After driving in silence the short distance to where the Z
was chained and staked down, Daymon stopped the Chevy and dismounted. Keeping
to his word, he approached the snarling Z and, with one downward chop of his
aptly named machete, freed one man’s soul and cleansed a small portion of his
own karmic slate in the process.