District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (43 page)

“I’m good,” Ray replied. “Found me a can of corned beef and
hash.”

Duncan regarded Tran with a raised brow. Pocketing the radio
he said, “Why don’t you go and help keep watch at the front gate.”

Tran looked at the Beretta in his hand for a second, then
exited the truck.

Duncan spent a moment alone in the truck steeling himself against
what he feared was at the end of a short walk to the stocks. “Fuck it,” he
said, throwing his door open.

As an afterthought, he reached back inside the truck and
snatched up his Stetson. Then, moving with purpose toward the pale form hanging
limply from the medieval-looking torture device, he tugged the hat down low,
adjusting the brim to hide the welling tears.

After lifting off of Suitland Parkway, the Ghost Hawk with
the Delta team aboard flew low and fast north by west, following the colorful
river of static metal and glass on the eastbound Parkway all the way to its
source: Washington D.C. The closer they got to the former seat of government,
the more destruction and stalled-out vehicles and roaming packs of dead they
overflew.

“Two mikes to Target Bravo,” Ari called over the comms.

Cade checked his weapon then peered out the port window.
Below the helo, the traffic jam of death gave way to a vast cemetery strangely
devoid of dead things aboveground. In seconds the grave markers and overgrown
green expanse was lost from sight and a brown river was snaking away to the
left.

“That’s the Anacostia,” said Skipper. “It borders the
District to the southwest and meets up with the Potomac near Ronald Reagan.”

Leaning forward and craning his head, Cade was just able to
make out where the two rivers intersected. And paralleling the Potomac, he saw
the airport’s runways, which, from this distance, appeared as pale gray lines
crisscrossing each other.

“One mike,” Ari said as he cut airspeed and they passed over
what remained of a six-lane concrete bridge spanning the Anacostia.

“That
was
the Sousa,” said Cross.

At once Axe began to whistle
Stars and Stripes Forever
.

“Reminds me of Fourth of July fireworks,” Griff added. “I’m
going to miss the beer and barbecues.”

“They’re only postponed,” Cade said. “We’re coming back from
this.”

Skipper regarded Cade, but, as per usual, said nothing. He
powered down the weapons bay door and gripped the mini by its vertical handles.

Through the new opening in the fuselage, Cade could see the
two Stealth Chinooks bobbing on pockets of turbulent air, but thanks to the
skilled SOAR pilots, still flying in tight formation. Beyond the helos a number
of Washington D.C.’s landmarks stood out against the foreboding autumn sky.

Griff jacked a thumb over his shoulder. “Capitol building’s
right over here. The dome has seen better days.”

Cade cast his gaze across the cabin in time to see what was
left of the top of the stylized, white dome pass by outside the window. Even
blackened by fire it stood out in stark contrast to the ground clutter. He
pulled up the contrasting mental images of the first days of the zombie
apocalypse. Save for the three helicopters cutting the airspace over the
District, the skies were as serene as he remembered Portland’s being after the
9/11 attacks. And unlike those crazy first days after the dead began to walk,
in the whole of D.C., for as far as he could see, there were no buildings going
up in flames. Not a lick of smoke sullied the crisp air.

Conditions on the ground were far different today than those
first days when unfathomable apocalyptic images were broadcast to the world on
cable television. Gone were the crowds of frantic people fleeing the dead.
Where military vehicles had been patrolling the streets, now only the dead
could be seen, their movement minimal due to lack of stimuli and dropping
temperatures.

“Daylight is a dwindling commodity,” Ari said. “Those
Rangers are raring to get into the fight. Might as well use them.”

Cade said, “We’re out of Screamers. Might as well unleash my
brethren.”

“We’ve got a few of the indoor Screamers left,” Cross said.

“We might need them inside Target Bravo.”

“On station in thirty,” Ari called. “I’ll orbit. Infil is at
your discretion, Anvil. The President wants her shopping list filled only if
there’s a good chance of everyone coming home.”

Cade didn’t like hearing the secondary mission framed that
way. He was as passionate about it as Clay had been when she asked if it was a
possibility. In fact, every man and woman in the TOC stood up and clapped when
she suggested it.

“Give me one pass low and slow,” Cade said.

“One?”

“
One
,” Cade repeated. “Scrape the ground if you want.
I don’t care.”

“Port side,” Ari said, banking Jedi One-One and flying her
right down Pennsylvania Avenue with the White House clearly visible between Ari
and Haynes out the cockpit glass. A couple of seconds later Target Bravo was
filling up the port-side glass, its exterior still blindingly white.

“This is the back side where the research entrance is
located,” Cade said. “Bring us around the building real slow.” He focused on
the far corner of the Grecian-styled structure.

Once the building’s west side scrolled by and the front
façade came into view, Axe said, “Looks like the stumblers don’t fancy all the
stairs.”

Griff said, “The wily bastards are probably hiding in
Sherwood Forest and waiting for us to come waltzing by.”

The twenty-plus oversized columns dominating the front
elevation did indeed offer a nice shadowy place to hide a lurker or ten.
However, Cade let it be known that the public entrance had been moved to the
corner of the place years ago due to ADA requirements. Which was a good thing,
because the original set of bronze double-doors would probably have required
explosives to breach from the outside. And with what looked to be hundreds of
dead per square mile in the District, anything with more punch than a
firecracker was sure to bring in large numbers of them from all around.

“We’re going in there,” Cade said, pointing out the entrance
on the final go-around. “Put us down in the fountain.”

“Which fountain?” Ari asked.

“The one with no water … just across Pennsylvania,” Cade
said.

“That’s the Navy memorial,” Cross said.

“Correct,” said Cade, gesturing toward Target Bravo. “We’ll cross
Pennsylvania and go west around the right side and enter through the southwest
corner entrance. I’ll pop the lock …”

“
If
it’s locked,” Axe said. “It’s not exactly the
NSA.”

Cade held a hand up in the SAS operator’s direction then
went on, “Elevator will be a no go. So we clear the stairwell on the way up.
The objective will be dead ahead from the top of the stairs.
If
the
items are still there, we’ll need the Ranger chalk from Jedi One-Two for extra
muscle. Once they are boots on the ground, have One-Three loiter, guns hot. We
use their chalk as a QRF
only
as a last resort.”

“Copy that,” Ari said. Then he switched channels and relayed
the impromptu plan to Nash at the TOC, and finished by bringing the other SOAR
pilots into the loop.

Cade sized up his team. To a man they looked fatigued, but
that was when alpha predators performed their best. And he knew when the time
came, they would give him no less than one hundred and ten per cent.

Two seconds after laying eyes on Oliver, Duncan knew Glenda’s
youngest was dead. Though it looked as if he had tried to staunch the flow of
blood from his crudely amputated leg by forcing the ragged stump into the muddy
soil of the once grass-covered parking strip, it had been all for naught.
Because of the way the stocks supported his weight—the job falling mostly on
his wrists and neck—there was no way for him to fully extend downward and apply
any kind of pressure to effectively staunch the bleeding. Then there was the
gaping second mouth that had been cut into his neck.
No surviving that.
Where Oliver’s Adam’s apple should have been was a six-inch gash that went
nearly ear-to-ear. And to add insult to the life-ending injury, Oliver’s tongue
had been threaded through the horrific wound.

Columbian Neck Tie
, thought Duncan, as he looked out
across the lake.
Same shit the Viet Cong perfected forty years ago.

He didn’t know how long he stood there staring with his
boots fused to the blood-soaked soil. Finally, snapping him to the present, Lev
and Daymon were at his side, the latter putting an arm around him and asking,
“Are you going to be OK, boss?”

Duncan lifted his head and regarded the pair with eyes
red-rimmed and glistening with fresh tears.

“Anything I can do?” asked Lev.

“Help me with Oliver.”

“We got it,” Daymon said.

“We found three U-Hauls full of food and supplies. Dregan is
taking one,” Lev added. “We can make room for Foley and Oliver in the back of
one of the others.”

Duncan nodded, then swung his gaze back out across the lake.

A trio of gunshots sounded from the direction of the
destroyed gate. After the initial report, there had been a two-second lapse
followed by two more shots delivered rapid-fire.

Looking over his shoulder, Duncan saw Tran standing over a
pair of fallen rotters. Beretta held limply at his side, the man turned and
delivered a solemn nod.

“You’re done being a pacifist, Tran,” muttered Duncan, as he
turned to watch Lev and Daymon dismantle the hardware fastening the wooden top
bar of the stocks over Oliver’s neck and wrists.

Across the cul-de-sac, near the smaller gate the half-dozen
trucks and vans had escaped through, Jamie was engaging a lone walker, her
tomahawk flashing through the air and settling inches deep into the thing’s
bald pate.

Riding the wind, the hollow thunk reached Duncan’s ears a
half-beat after his eyes registered a sight he thought he’d never see outside
of a documentary about the Middle Ages.

Wondering when all of this fighting and killing and death
was going to end, Duncan trudged back to his ruined Dodge. He collected his
gear and motioned Tran over. Together, they followed the all-too-familiar blood
trail to the house that had briefly caught fire but was now just spewing wispy
curls of smoke from an upper window. The garage door was open and sitting on
the floor cross-legged were Adrian, one of the plain-looking women, and a third
woman they had found hiding in a bathroom of the house above them. The women’s
wrists were zip-tied behind their backs and dirty shop rags protruded from each
of their mouths.

From her spot on the oil-stained cement floor, Adrian looked
up at Duncan and started hurling muffled epithets his way.

“Sticks and stones …” quipped Duncan in a tired-sounding
voice.

Returning from the orange and white U-Haul parked beside the
house, Daymon said, “Foley and Oliver are in back of the truck outside. Found a
moving blanket to cover them with. Lev tied them down as best he could.”

Duncan said nothing. Continued to stare at the women.

Daymon said, “We found three men in the basement of Fatty
Fatterson’s house. They were real malnourished and said the Pocatello prisoners
beat them often and used them for slave labor. All of them were missing
fingers. One had his arm amputated at the elbow. Now and again these bitches
would hold some kind of bastardized religious rituals before hacking pieces off
of them … to
eat
.”

Eyes bugged, Adrian spewed something unintelligible while
straining against her bonds.

Duncan put his hand on the big woman’s shoulder and forced
her to be still. Loosening his grip, he fixed his bloodshot eyes on Daymon,
then flicked the gaze to Lev.

Lev said, “I bandaged the survivors best I could. Gave them
food, water, and a truck and let them go.”

Duncan nodded.

Daymon said, “They weren’t just eating men.”

Duncan arched a brow.

“We found dog bones mixed in with the human remains out
back. Oliver’s missing leg was still cooking on the grill.”

A half-dozen gunshots rang out from the rear gate. Then
Jamie’s voice emanated from the radio to let everyone know she had put down
three rotters and all was well.

Resuming the conversation, Daymon said, “I let the men go
because I figured we didn’t need three more mouths to feed at the compound. It
was all I could do to keep them from coming back to kill
Mom
.”

Duncan nodded. “Did you give them weapons?”

There was a pained moment of silence. Lev and Daymon met
eyes.

Lev looked at the floor.

Finally, Daymon spoke up. “Nope,” he said, tucking a stray
dread behind his ear.

 “Good,” Duncan said matter-of-factly.

“What do we do with these three little piggies?” Daymon
asked.

“Put them in the stocks. Leave them for the rotters to eat.”

Adrian listed to the side and hit the concrete with a solid
thud. She lay there struggling against her bonds like a failed Houdini act.

Duncan tossed his gear into the U-Haul and returned and
stood next to Tran, who had just arrived from the front gate.

“We’ll gladly take care of these three,” Lev said. “Least we
can do for Foley and Oliver.”

Daymon locked eyes with Duncan. “Before we go, I have
something I need to get off my chest.”

Duncan told Tran to sit tight. “Let’s walk,” he said to
Daymon.

As the two men made their way out of the garage and around
the corner to where the U-Haul was parked, Daymon came clean about his attempts
at toughening Oliver up. Spilled about the two instances when he actually put
the dead man’s life in danger. Then he told Duncan how he planned to atone for
it.

Duncan looked behind him, then leaned against the garage.

“Foley’s blood is on my hands. I guess I let Dregan’s
attitude rub off on me. I underestimated those hags. That’s a fact.” Duncan
pushed off the wall and stood inches from Daymon, looking up into his eyes.
“What you did isn’t the same. Oliver’s always been a loner. Glenda told me as
much. So in my eyes, there’s no need for atonement.”

“When we get back to the compound, me and Heidi are leaving.
I found a place for us outside of Woodruff.”

“You’re a big boy. Know that I don’t hold you responsible,”
Duncan said, backing off a pace. “I still have to tell Glenda what went down.”

“All the better I’m leaving then.”

Duncan closed his eyes and rested his chin on his chest for
a second. When he looked up, Daymon was gone. So he climbed behind the wheel of
the U-Haul and radioed Taryn to tell her they were moving out in a few minutes
and to be ready to go.

A moment later Tran climbed into the passenger seat, a
hangdog look on his face.

“They weren’t humans,” Duncan said, heading him off at the
pass. “At least not anymore. And fella, if you keep that Beretta you better be
willing to use it against both the dead
and
the living.”

Tran said nothing. He kept his gaze locked outside the
window as Duncan started the engine.

Waiting for the U-Haul’s rough idle to steady, Duncan called
Lev over. “Burn the place,” he said. “To the ground. Then knock the side fence
down so the dead can see Adrian and her evil friends.”

Lev nodded and strode over to help Daymon with the
prisoners.

Sitting in silence, Duncan let the engine warm up for a
couple of minutes. When he finally pulled away toward the gate, he saw the
stocks newly filled with the three women, the leader of the group, Adrian,
acting as the meaty center of the soon-to-be rotter sandwich.

Maneuvering the ungainly box truck around the destroyed
gate, Duncan picked up the Motorola and radioed Ray to say he was coming to
pick him up. Then, as the U-Haul’s tires hit the smooth pavement, he glanced in
the side mirror and saw the licks of fire and black smoke that told him Daymon
and Lev were taking care of business.