Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (22 page)

“You and your friends are OK,” said Logan. “The Old Man made
an executive decision. Apparently he’s already vetted you.”

Nodding, Duncan said, “See you outside near the airstrip just
after dark?”

“I’ll be there ... can’t speak for the others. I’ll run it
by them though,” said Daymon.

Logan grabbed the legal pad from the desk, tore a yellow
sheet from somewhere near the middle, uncapped a black Sharpie and began to
draw. In less than a minute he’d knocked out a crude map complete with a hastily
drawn SR-39, a thick, no nonsense scrawl looping around the compound. The
airstrip, however, was a dotted black line bisecting the middle of the page and
he’d drawn a pretty good-looking compass rose pointing north, denoting the
compound’s location in relation to Logan, Huntsville, and Eden.

Never one to pass up an opportunity to levy a quip, Daymon said,
“Writing me a love letter? But we only just met.” He took the map from Logan and
held it under the overhead bulb. It was a crude overview of the compound, that
much he knew after having seen the property from the air while aloft in the DHS
Black Hawk. However, the hieroglyphic-looking markings scattered about the
lined sheet meant nothing to him without a key. So he put the map flat on the desk
and looked a question at Logan.

“Sorry Daymon, I’m not very artistic by nature,” said Logan.
“I’m more of a computer and numbers guy.”

“No worries,” said Daymon, leaning over the map. “What
exactly am I looking at here?”

“Obviously a map of the compound ... but not to scale. First
and foremost, make sure you go
nowhere
near the Xs marked
here
,
and
here,
and the ones by State Route 39,
right here
,” said Logan,
black Sharpie acting as a pointer. “Each one of those indicate where we’ve dug
rotter traps. Basically holes outfitted with sharpened sticks.”

“Punji stakes is what we called ‘em in Nam, Daymon. Real bad
juju if you’re not paying attention and step on one,” added Duncan. “The VC
used to dip ‘em in shit. You get stuck by one, worst case scenario is you’re
going to bleed out and die. You find a way to free yourself, staunch the
bleeding and move on, eventually Mister Gangrene will set in and you’ll lose
the leg. But we skipped the dipping ‘em in shit part since the rotters are
already basically gangrene walking anyway.”

“Good to know,” said Daymon, flashing a half-smile. “I’ll be
sure to steer clear of them. I had a thought when I was coming in here before I
wracked my dome on the top of the doorway.”

Logan began twirling his mustache and said, “What’s on your
mind?”

“You think we oughta be locking the outside doors after
coming and going?”

Shuffling his feet, Logan met Daymon’s gaze and said, “Funny
you should mention it. Me and Duncan were just discussing that before you came
in. Solid idea, friend.”

“That’s some Twilight Zone shit right there,” said Daymon.
“You know what they say about great minds.” He folded the map, gave each man a solid
fist bump, and then filtered through the space, ducking his head before transiting
into the next Conex.

There was a brooding silence as Daymon’s footfalls faded
away.

Logan craned his head and looked down the corridor. “Daymon
seems like an OK guy,” he said. Then he pulled a chair over and took a seat and
looked up at Duncan still holding the wall up.

“I’ve seen him in action,” said Duncan. “And he certainly
can take care of himself. I think he’ll be a heck of an asset once he gets used
to the tight confines.”

“I trust your judgment, bro,” Logan proffered. Then his face
opened up and there was a twinkle in his eyes as he went on, “Now tell me a Cobra
Gunship story. Did it have the red and white shark’s teeth on the chin?”

“Yes it did. And I’m sorry, Logan. There were lots of things
about Nam I kept to myself ... better that way. Shit was bloody and brutal even
from five thousand feet up.” He went quiet for a beat. “Not to mention the fact
that you were young and impressionable. I didn’t want you to start idolizing
big bro and get star-spangled-eyes and want to go off to war.”

“Thanks for that,” said Logan. “You know, Lev came back from
Iraq a little different than he was when he left. Can’t quite place how. But I
can sense that he lost a part of himself over there.”

“War has a way of changing a man. It’s changing you too,
Logan. You can’t see it as it’s happening, but one day you’ll wake up and see
the world through a different shade of glasses.”

“Enough about me,” said Logan quietly. I want to hear about the
Delta guy ... Cade.”

“Daymon says he spoke to Cade a couple of days ago and he’s supposed
to be making his way here. Damn good for us. Good to have a real ass kicker around
when the shit hits the fan.”

“Does he play well with others?” asked Logan.

“He’s a little like you. Reserved until spurred into action.
But his actions ... when he’s spurred speak way louder than words and usually
involve a gun, and a knife, and end with a trail of bodies.”

“OK. Consider him vetted and approved. Can you promise me
one thing though?”

“Depends.”

“Just promise.”

“In life, Logan, there are no promises.”

“If or when he shows up. I was thinking before you go
risking your life and anyone else’s who hops in with you we oughta go find us a
place to get you a new set of specs.”

“You’re not getting this old man inside a shopping mall for
anything ... not even if my eyes get so bad I’m calling a cat a dog. No way. I ain’t
setting foot near one. I’ve seen how those monsters follow the roads. Sometimes
staying inside the cars they died in even if they could get out and walk away.”

“So what’s your point?” asked Logan, a curious look on his
face.

“My point, little brother ... the outbreak went full tilt on
a Saturday.” He paused for effect. “Hell, those mall walkers were at one time a
couple of dead brain cells away from being a zombie before the outbreak anyway.
So where do you think they went after they became real card-carrying, non-breathing
zombies?”

“The mall,” intoned Logan. “But I was talking about the
eyeglass place at the strip mall in Eden. That’s a bit different ... don’t you
think?”

Before Duncan could offer up another
hell no
in
response to Logan’s appeal, the equipment on the shelves began to sway
minutely. One of the folding chairs skittered along the floor and a thumbtack
worked loose from the corkboard, releasing a sheet of paper which fluttered to
the floor near Duncan’s boots. Then the vibration became a rushing sound with a
resonance like an old box fan on the lowest setting.

Duncan mouthed, “
What the fuck is that?”

“That’s us losing some more people,” answered Logan.

“What do you mean?”

Shaking his head in obvious disbelief, Logan said, “Edward’s
following up on his threat and flying his family out of here.”

“Why?”

“Didn’t like how you handled the folks on the road.”

Duncan shook his head and sighed.

“It’s not just you, Duncan. Ed thought this would be over in
a day or two. And once he gunned down his first rotter and reality set in, he was
already one foot out the door.”

“Where does he think he’s going that will be any safer than
here?”

“Said he’d find someplace where there were no undead. An
island or mountaintop.”

“Swiss Family Robinson-type of pipe dream, that is. I’ve
heard how far this thing has spread and how many of
us
have become
them
.
And it ain’t pretty,” said Duncan. “The Shangri-La he’s looking for doesn’t
exist. And the fact that he believes it gets much better than this is what might
have just gotten him and his family killed.”

The noise grew distant. Logan saw the plane in his mind’s
eye. Throttles pegged. Bumping along the make-shift runway. Flaps catching the
wind. The plane rising slowly and then the moment of truth was near. He looked
up at the container’s metal roof and waited for it. Ten seconds went by.
Nothing
.
Then ten more and nothing. No explosion. No sound of rending metal on impact. Thankfully,
the not-so-svelte Edward and the loaded-down Cessna had cleared the trees and
the fireball remained a figment of Logan’s pessimistic imagination.

“They made it,” said Duncan.

Logan replied, “Hope their luck continues.”

Duncan looked at his watch. He noted the time, then pushed
his aviator glasses to the top of his balding head and pinched the bridge of
his nose. “In fifteen minutes, meet me in the interrogation room,” he said,
adding emphasis as well as air quotes around the word
interrogation
.

Remembering the bad cop/good cop ruse they’d played on the
dreadlocked white kid from Huntsville, Logan cracked a quick smile. “Lev spells
me in a few minutes, then I have to make my rounds outside to check our traps.”

“I’ll cover for you until Lev gets here. Who is out on
security right now?”

“The girls are still up by the road. Chief is keeping an eye
on the aircraft and the strip.”

“Gus and Phil?”

“Walking the property,” Logan answered. He handed over the
two-way radio he’d been monitoring the others with. “Just changed the battery.
10-1 is the channel we’re using.”

“Good channel,” Duncan said, remembering the trip through
the gorge and high desert of Oregon. “I won’t forget it.”

“See you in fifteen,” said Logan.

Duncan called out, “Sharp,” at Logan as he walked off towards
the exit. And as soon as the younger Winters was out of sight, curiosity got
the better of the older Winters. He listened hard for the distinctive sound of
the outside door latching, and a few seconds after the telling
snik
reached
his ears he waited an additional minute, checked both corridors leading away,
and then scooped up the paper that had fallen near his feet. On it were strings
of letters and numbers seemingly thrown together. After a second he realized
the column on the left was the call signs of two dozen or so ham operators. And
in the next column there were abbreviations, three and four letters long, which
Duncan gathered were the operators’ locations. Finally, a third column held other
notations scribed in Logan’s clean, easy-to-read hand. Theoretically, thought
Duncan, what he was holding in his hand was the contact information for
survivors the world over that Logan had painstakingly gathered over the last
three weeks. He hinged over, picked the thumbtack off the floor, and then pinned
the paper to the corkboard in roughly the same location he remembered seeing it
fall from. Then he listened hard again. Heard nothing. He looked down at the
pad on the desk to steal a quick peek at the notations his brother had been
making before Daymon blew through.

“Hell, I’m old enough to be his dad,” Duncan said to
himself, a weak attempt at rationalizing the transgression. He gave the first
three sheets a cursory examination, smoothed them back down, and squared the
pad away to where he thought it had been originally. Then, with the information
he’d just acquired troubling him greatly, he made a mental note to confront
Logan about it later.

I-90 Near Draper, South
Dakota

In order to allow the gas a
little extra time to evaporate—or whatever term was applicable when dealing
with petroleum products—Cade fought off the urge to turn the key after thirty
seconds and instead waited a full three minutes. Sitting in the cab with morbid
thoughts trespassing where they didn’t belong, the seconds passed like hours—the
entire three minutes seeming to take an eternity. And adding further tension to
the wait, the undead bus driver had somehow forced its way past the undead
campers and mashed its pale face against the vertical glass in the folding door.
Then, as if driven by some leftover snippet of memory, the portly creature worked
its fingers between the door’s vertically-running weather seals and was slowly but
surely working it open.

Ignoring the abomination, Cade said, “Fire in the hole.” He
turned the key and the starter whirred alive; then, to keep from making the
same mistake twice, he kept his foot off the gas pedal, held his breath, and
waited. Another couple of long seconds passed before the plugs sparked, setting
the fuel in the cylinders afire. With a gunshot-like backfire the engine
chugged to life and rattled on, sounding like it was hitting on only six of its
eight cylinders.
Oh, what a beautiful sound
, Cade thought to himself as
the power plant emitted a shrill squeal yet somehow maintained a ragged idle
that transmitted a harsh vibration through the firewall, through the sole of
the size-twelve boot he’d taken from Gaines, and deep into the damaged tissue,
tendons, and bones of his newly swollen-to-size-fourteen left foot. Wincing
from the incredible pain, he wiped beads of sweat from his brow and said a
prayer, asking the Gods of internal combustion to keep the thing running.

Excited by the noisy engine, the undead driver thrashed
against the door, opening it a few more inches. Then with its sneering face wedging
the door open, it worked one of its blood slickened arms through the crack into
the sunlight, strained forward, and raked its fingernails against the
automotive glass.

With the Z’s mouth longingly opening and closing registering
in his side vision, Cade reached down and shifted the Chevy into
4x4 Low.
Trying
his best to pretend the creature wasn’t there, he shifted his gaze and watched
the drama behind them playing out in the rear view mirror.

At the rear of the bed, his black body armor streaked with
glistening fluids, Agent Cross stood tall, racking round after round through
the shotgun. Five booming reports sounded and he dropped the empty weapon, drew
a bulky-looking handgun and looked back and met Cade’s gaze. Gesturing forward
with the pistol, Cross said, “Keep the engine running and we’ll get you through
the gap.” He turned, placed his free hand on the tailgate, and leapt atop the mound
of fallen corpses.