Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (24 page)

Eden Compound

After inspecting the pull dates on two rows of canned food
and then facing them so that all of the labels were readable and pointing in
the same direction, Duncan snuck another look at his watch.
Three minutes
overdue.
Even as a boy Logan had never been punctual, and if this was any
indication then the zombie apocalypse had had little effect on the man. Duncan
recalled the years he’d spent after Vietnam living back at home bouncing between
jobs, women, and the horse track. Always searching for the answers to his
problems in the next big trifecta or at the bottom of a bottle. Then one day,
after a dozen years and thousands of nightmares and the fall of Saigon were
behind him, he finally hit rock bottom and decided to clean up his act. With
both Mom and Dad pushing sixty and Oops entering his teen years, Duncan found
himself drawn to duty again—only this time it was to family instead of country.
Once again he learned to straighten up and fly right and grab responsibility by
the horns, only this time it wasn’t due to a screaming drill instructor or the
need to stay frosty in a theater of war. In hindsight, it had been Logan’s
unconditional love that pulled him from the abyss, allowing him to get a tenuous
hold on his life. And that was why, over the last nineteen minutes, a hot mess
of guilt had been gnawing at his gut like an Alien trying to escape. So,
sitting here amongst the beans and soup and five gallon buckets filled with his
least favorite food—white rice—he’d come to the conclusion that his best bet
was to come clean and
then
begin the inquisition. After all, he was the
big brother here and if he couldn’t be trusted with the knowledge Logan was
obviously withholding, then what good was he to the kid?

Just as he was finished facing the jumbo cans of cling
peaches, the door swung wide and Logan swept into the room.

“Right on time,” Duncan said.

Saying nothing, Logan slammed the door, setting the lone light
bulb swinging.

“What’s the matter, kid?”

Logan exhaled forcefully. “I’m a failure. That’s what’s the
matter.”

“Bullshit, baby bro. You designed and built this place
single-handedly. If this is about Daymon and me busting your balls earlier then
I’m truly sorry,” said Duncan. He drew a deep breath. Held it for a second
before exhaling and added, “After all that’s gone down today, the last thing I
meant to do was hurt your feelings.”

“We’re losing another family of four because they can’t
handle the violence. Good church-going people. Neighbors back in Salt Lake.”

Like a cowboy in a western flick, Duncan leaned back against
the wall, put his thumbs in his belt and said, “World’s a violent place ...
always has been.”

Grimacing, Logan replied, “You know it’s bad enough that we
have to deal with the walking dead, but now we’ve got people ... bandits ... or
whatever you want to call them, trying to take our stuff by force.”

“Force
needs
to be dealt with by use of greater force
... violence of action. I don’t like it either but the way I see it—we’ve
solved our bandit problems for the time being. As for the unintended
consequences—is losing seven or eight hungry mouths, with only two of them able-bodied
men who bring something to the table such a bad thing?” He went silent. Worried
his silver goatee.

Logan said, “You’re
cold
, Duncan.” He swallowed hard
and looked away.

Duncan made no reply.

Logan said softly, “They have kids.”

“I’m being practical, Logan. Besides, they made a choice.
It’s simple math as far as I see it, and with Daymon and Jenkins aboard it’s a
wash. Hell, I think the dreadlocked kid and the cop are worth four of your
friends. Hate to be callous, but if we’re going to survive ... come out the
other end of this thing not hungering for human flesh ourselves, you’re going
to have to grow thicker skin. Forget about this democracy thing. Stop worrying
about hurting someone’s feelings, and take charge.”

Logan’s eyes went glassy. The overhead light reflected off the
pooling tears. “I’ve already killed seven men since this thing started. Not
rotters ... stopped counting them the day after Washington D.C. fell. It’s the
seven living, breathing men who are visiting me in my nightmares,” Logan said,
choking back the tears.

“Get used to it. It’s gonna be multiples of those seven if
you’re lucky,” drawled Duncan “And you know what that means?”

“No,” Logan said, wiping his face with his shirt.

“It means you are still alive and they aren’t,” Duncan said.
“This is not a Y2K type of event. What we have here is not what you and Lev
prepared for. The police and military are not going to reconstitute any time
soon. Maybe they never will. So right now I’m drawing a line in the sand. We’ve
got to start treating this like the life and death situation that it is.”

An outburst of laughter from a far corner of the
subterranean redoubt worked its way forward, echoing from the walls and around
the twists and turns and fading as it passed the storage room door.

“I’ve gotta come clean with you, baby bro. After you left ...
right before Lev showed up, I snooped around a little. Found some radio info on
a sheet on the floor, and couldn’t stop myself from reading the notations on your
legal pad. When were you planning on telling me or anyone else about the black
helicopters those kids up north are seeing?”

“Initially I was going to wait until tonight when everyone
was assembled. Then our conversation earlier and Daymon adding his two cents
started gnawing on me. I
was
going to run it by you here. But, like
always, you beat me to the punch.”

Taking a can from the shelf and juggling it hand to hand, Duncan
said, “Tell me about the names you scratched out.”

“Those were groups of survivors that I’d been sharing
information with since the outbreak. For some reason over the last couple of
days most of them have stopped transmitting. And they aren’t picking up when I hail
them.”

“One try and you write them off?”

“No,” answered Logan. “I’d give them a couple of tries in
one day. Then try again the next ...”

“No answer they get scratched?”

“Yep.”

“And this usually coincides with them seeing black helos?”

“The earlier ones all fell to the dead. I’m pretty sure of
that. I was chatting with one fella in Salt Lake when his home was overrun. He
left the mike open. I listened as they fought for their lives. Gunshots.
Screaming. And then the moans and cries of the dead and dying ... and then
silence. That was the last thing I heard of them.” He shivered visibly. “Pleading
for their lives and then silence.”

“The ones you’ve been in contact with recently ... did they
see the helicopters?”

“Yes. And some ground vehicles. All military.”

“Was the Humvee I used to engage our Huntsville friends
military?”

“National Guard—”

“Logan ... work the problem for a second,” Duncan said,
staring at him straight. “Take
nothing
at face value. Learned that over
there. The peasants wore black pajamas. The Viet Cong wore black pajamas ...
make any sense?”

“Perfect sense. I take back the parent comment. From here on
out I want you to teach me everything you know.”

“Copy that, baby bro.”

“I think I know where to find a large cache of supplies.
Weapons and gear and food. Enough to keep us going for a long time.”

“Go on,” said Duncan, a smile curling the corner of his
mouth.

Ten minutes later, after Logan had laid everything on the
table and they had war-gamed his idea together, a decision was made.

South Dakota

With a slow motion procession of dead on their six, and
glimpses of daylight peeking through the fender-to-bumper maze, the fabled
yellow VW came into view. It was on the shoulder, right where Cross had
promised. It served as the far left bookend to a row of stationary vehicles
that were nosed up against a tremendous pileup blocking the interstate
shoulder-to-shoulder. The burned-out hulk of some kind of tractor-trailer rig
appeared to have been—initially at least—the main cause of the backup. It had
jack-knifed with its trailer jutting to the right, partially hanging over the
shrub-covered embankment. The tractor itself, Cade presumed, had at first
ridden up and over a handful of cars, crushing them beyond recognition before
the entire jumble caught fire. Intense heat had scorched the asphalt, causing
it to bubble before cooling and hardening, leaving it looking like the surface
of the moon. The conflagration had also scoured away any clues as to what make
or model the nearest half-dozen automobiles had been. Everything flammable was
gone. Vinyl, cloth, and plastic vanished in a cloud of toxic fumes.
Didn’t
matter though
, Cade thought. The people driving the little econo-boxes had
probably died instantly. To him it was like they had almost been asking for it.
Rolling coffins, he’d heard cars that size called. And the shoe fit because all
that was left of them was skeletal remains—both human and vehicle.

“Cross, Lopez ... I need you two to cover Hicks at the next
objective,” said Cade as a burst of silenced automatic rifle fire sounded in
his earpiece. He glanced at the rearview in time to see a flurry of movement as
Hicks gunned a trio of Zs to the roadway, and in nearly the same instant
unclipped the rifle, tossed it down, and the black pistol reappeared in his
gloved hand.

“Copy that,” replied Cross, eyes tearing up from the stench
more so than the wind curling around his sunglasses. He sensed the truck begin
to slow, snugged the SCAR carbine to his shoulder, and began dropping the
nearest walking cadavers.

Then, before anyone could react, the sound of a hundred
freight trains was again on top of them as Oil Can Five-Five skimmed overhead
less than a hundred feet above the deck.

“This is Anvil Actual. How copy, Oil Can?” Cade called into
the comms as the plane’s pale fuselage flicked by and the truck was buffeted in
its slipstream.

“Solid copy,” replied a voice Cade recognized as belonging
to the co-pilot who had introduced himself earlier as Second Lieutenant Norman
Meredith.

“Are we still proceeding with Plan A?” Cade inquired. “Or
does Nash have a Pave Hawk and some PJs (Air Force Pararescue Jumpers) enroute
from Schriever?”

Meredith said, “If you have three hours to kill, we can
arrange a Pave Hawk and a couple of PJs.”

Cade grimaced and tightened his grip on the wheel as a
child-sized flesh-eater appeared from out of nowhere and was instantly
swallowed under the truck’s front end. “Plan A works for us,” he answered back,
as the small form thumped and bumped along the entire length of the
undercarriage. He relayed the question to Ari.

“Tell them my vote is for A,” said Ari, who had been
eavesdropping anyway and was never shy about adding his two cents. “They get us
to Schriever and we’re gonna owe them big time. Shit ... what are we up to now?
Gotta be four or five cases,” he added, answering his own question. He swiveled
right. “Beer sounds good, doesn’t it, Jasper?”

“Home stretch is coming up. We’re committing,” said First
Lieutenant Dover in Cade’s ear bud.

“Roger that,” Cade replied, maneuvering the Chevy between
the cable barrier to the left and the VW on their right while adding a few new
streaks of yellow to the Chevy’s growing palette.

Finally clear of the breach, Cade looked back at the sea of
metal and shambling Zs he’d successfully navigated. Then he stuck his head out
again and looked up at the Hercules which was making another slow turn to the
south. He saw it level out and then noticed a barely visible grayish mist and
knew instantly what he was witnessing. The thin, gauzelike veil was fuel
spewing from the Herc’s wings and mixing in the turbulent vortex and drifting
to the ground. The broadening gray smudge kind of reminded Cade of rain falling
from a distant cloud band as it fell to Earth.

Colorado Springs, Colorado

At the precise location Sergeant Eckels had chosen to
initiate contact with the dead, I-25 made a slight left-hand bend north by
west. And beyond that bend, out of sight from his position, were three
soccer-pitch-sized moats filled two knuckles deep with diesel fuel. And
stretching in the opposite direction, beyond West Colorado Boulevard and the
Auto Mall in which his command vehicle was parked, to an area in the distance
near where he’d deployed the pair of M-ATVs and his lone sniper team, three
similar-sized moats had been carved into the middle of Interstate 25.

The remnants of the excavation were piled head high on
either side of the six lanes, and like parapets atop a castle wall, poured
concrete Jersey barriers encircled with concertina wire snaked haphazardly atop
the mounds of fresh dirt and fractured asphalt. To Eckels, the whole undulating
affair kind of looked like an earthen sea serpent, or perhaps the Great Wall of
China—but on a much smaller scale. To further augment his
kill box
, on
the east side of 25 was some kind of slough, its brackish water moving at a
snail’s pace. On the opposite side, and of no interest to the shambling horde,
stood a smattering of darkened fast food joints, their garish-colored signage
offering up $4.99 value meals and Oreo Blizzards, Kid’s Meals and the
Chinese-made trinkets masquerading as toys so coveted before the world died. A
block south was a thoroughly looted sporting goods store, its empty parking lot
paper-strewn and glittering with broken glass. Next door, a half-dozen auto
dealerships with a good deal of dust- and soot-covered inventory commandeered
the equivalent of three long city blocks.