Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (35 page)

“Heading topside?” asked Phillip through a mouthful of pound
cake.

“Too cramped to sleep.”

“Sleep? The sun’s up.”

“Couldn’t tell back there in the
tomb
.”

Phillip swallowed, took a swig of water and said, “You’ll
get used to it.”

Daymon made no reply. Flashed the man a quick smile that
said you don’t know
Jack
, and ducked through the doorway.

***

Once outside the compound, Daymon dogged the door tight.
Zombie tight, not human tight. Then he heard the metallic snick of the internal
lock that told him the Phillip guy was halfway competent. He took a deep
lungful of damp air and relaxed a bit with the knowledge that Heidi was safely
ensconced inside and he no longer had God knows how much dirt over his head. He
looked through the conifer canopy at the lightening sky. Drew in another deep
breath, stretched hard, sending a popping noise up his spine. Curiosity piqued
by harried voices and the occasional grunt coming from the direction of the
makeshift airfield, he stowed his headlamp and moved towards the sounds slowly,
letting his body become fully awake.

He stopped just inside the tree line, cracked the top off a
bottled water and finished it in two drinks, being careful not to let the
plastic crackle as he sucked down the last mouthful.

Enduring constant drips from above, he loitered under the
drooping boughs and watched the activity taking place.

With Duncan acting as supervisor, Lev, Gus, and Chief rocked
the DHS Black Hawk back and forth incrementally until its wheels rolled up onto
the half-inch plywood sheets they’d laid down over the wet grass. Then, like
some kind of chain gang boss, Duncan began to deliver a Vietnam-era marching
cadence in order to get the men working in unison.

After a couple of minutes of watching the men slipping and
sliding and wondering who the hell Ho Chi Minh was, Daymon sensed someone’s
approach. He glanced over his shoulder as Logan, wearing the black bowler hat
Daymon had never seen him without, materialized from the shadows, one hand held
up in greeting. The fatigues he was wearing, light khaki with brown splotches
and black dashes, clashed with the hat and did little to help him blend in to
his surroundings.

Following closely behind Logan were the two younger women
whom Daymon had been introduced to the day before on the road outside the
compound.

Standing a few inches over 5-feet, Jamie wore black cargo
pants and a long-sleeved shirt in U.S. Army woodland camouflage—an interlaced
patchwork of brown, green, and black leaf-shaped patterns. Her features were
strikingly sharp, angular cheek bones with a small aquiline nose set above
thin, pursed lips. Her eyes, like the lock of hair snaking from under her
boonie hat, were dark brown with very little of the whites showing. And cradled
comfortably in the crook of one arm was an AR-15 style rifle, black, with a
scope of some sort attached on the upper rail.

Jordan, on the other hand, was far from imposing. A mere
tick over 5-feet, she had soft, rose-colored cheeks and an open and inviting
face. Eyes the color of glacial runoff were set closely above a slightly
upturned nose. Matching her lashes and eyebrows, a shock of honey-blond hair
was pulled into a short pony tail and stuck out the back of her black ball cap.
A scoped bolt action rifle was slung over her shoulder, its synthetic stock
done up with a woodland camouflage. Daymon was struck at once with the
impression that he was in the presence of someone’s kid sister on the first day
of deer season.

“What’s the old man up to?” asked Daymon.

Shouldering the M4, Logan replied, “He’s been talking about
taking that thing back up and I think he’s finally making good on the threat.”

“Threat?”

“Because he’s been complaining about his vision lately. I
don’t think it’s safe for him to be flying.”

“Have you looked around lately? The dead are walking. Some
murderous motherfuckers ... pardon my French, ladies,” Daymon said flashing a
half smile. “With these douche bags wanting to kill you and take your compound
and all of the stuff in it, I think your brother’s eyesight should be the least
of your worries.”

“We
all
look out for each other here,” Logan replied.
He reached back and handed a fob full of keys to Jamie and nodded towards the
Jackson Hole Police cruiser.

“Duncan gave me a lift to Driggs in that helicopter. Flew it
like a champ,” said Daymon.

“Well, we are siblings. He watches my back and I watch his.”

“Sounds like you’re watching his like a helicopter parent.”

Logan watched the girls walk across the dew-bent grass,
their passage disturbing the low-hanging mist making it swirl and eddy. “No ...
I watch him like he’s all I’ve got left in this world. Because that’s the truth
of the matter,” he said.

Daymon put his hands on his hips. “Where are you going?” he
asked.

“Now who sounds like the helicopter parent,” Logan said with
a grin.

Obviously feeling rather sheepish, Daymon kicked at a blade
of grass, transferring beads of dew to his boot. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

“No worries. The old guy I was talking about around the
campfire ... the prepper,” answered Logan. “We’re going to see if we can locate
his bug-out retreat.”

“You know where it’s at ... or at least the general
ballpark?”

“Within ten miles or so. There are a couple of old mining
operations east of here. I figure he staked a claim on one of them. Probably
locked it up with a long-term land lease before breaking ground on his
compound.”

“And you’re basing this supposition on a certain type of
soil
you saw on a rental tractor?”

“I remember seeing the bright red dirt and hearing the clerk
complaining about it like it happened just yesterday. And yes, I suppose I’m
right about it because it’s as solid a lead as any. Like I said, this fella is
one of the extreme end-of-the-world type of
preppers.
”

Scratching his head, Daymon asked, “Isn’t there a National
Guard armory in these parts? Wouldn’t you think there’s a better chance of
finding the equipment you’re looking for there?”

“Camp Williams south of Salt Lake is where they kept their
gear and vehicles. Other than that, there are a few local garrisons scattered
about,” Logan said. “But none nearby. Besides, odds are every unit went out
loaded for bear when martial law was declared. Lev and Chief came upon a
roadblock east of here near Woodruff. That’s where they got the pair of
high-tech headsets off of a couple of dead Guardsmen. But the rest ... their
weapons and ammo and medical kits had already been picked clean.”

“You’re driving there?”

Logan nodded towards the black and white Tahoe.

”Taking Jenkins up on the offer, huh?”

Logan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You
spying for the Old Man or something?”

“No ... just shootin' the shit, that’s all.”

“I was surprised Jenkins offered it up,” said Logan.

“I’m not,” Daymon shot back. “I drove us here from Victor in
that thing. Seems like a switch was flicked and Charlie has put his policing
days behind him.”

“Grateful just the same,” said Logan. “I figure the light
bar alone gives us a little clout if we encounter any survivors. Besides, I
can’t stand those creampuff luxury Toyotas.”

“You’ll like this one. She sure drives nice. Lots of power
and the beast will stop on a dime and give you a nickel change,” said Daymon.
“Years ago, who would’ve thought that the
po-po
would be rolling around
in lowered SUVs.”

“Sorry, Daymon. I’m going to help them push the chopper,”
Logan said. “You coming?”

Saying nothing, Daymon pulled up his shirt and exposed the
wormy-pink scar tissue forming over the wounds where the fence at Schriever had
chewed into him. Shiny and thick as a lamp cord, he’d carry them for the rest
of his life as a grim reminder of the hold his fear of captivity and confined
spaces had on him.

Logan made a face, turned away, and jogged across the dirt
strip, carbine banging his hip with each footfall.

Shivering against the morning chill, Daymon watched Logan
toss his rifle into the police cruiser’s open window, methodically roll up his
sleeves, and join in the effort.

Wishing he’d had the foresight to don something thicker than
a tee shirt, Daymon rubbed the goose flesh on his arms and set out towards the
action—partly to get his blood flowing, but also to see if there was anything
he could offer in the way of help.

Aside from the manual labor there was nothing else he could
do. And he’d already learned the hard way how even the slightest bit of
exertion could reopen the vertical gashes on his abdomen. So he stood back and
gawked at the men as they struggled and cursed and pushed until finally the
Black Hawk’s rotor disc and tail boom was clear of the tree line. Amused, he
watched as Lev and Gus ran around the chopper policing up the half dozen
plywood sheets that weren’t still trapped under its big tires, then carted them
over and stacked them neatly near where the ship had originally been parked. On
the return trip, they dragged the camouflage netting back to the chopper and
tossed it over top and stretched it taut so that it covered the drooping blades
and vertical tail rotor.

Getting Duncan’s attention wasn’t easy. The way the grizzled
aviator had been walking around issuing orders and slapping backs like some
kind of conflicted
shop steward
prevented Daymon from just walking up
and tapping him on the shoulder and asking for a minute of his time. So Daymon
waited and watched Logan pass a couple of emergency gas cans into the back of
Jenkins’s black and white. Then he looked on as Duncan and Logan held a brief
huddle, arms around shoulders, faces stuck well into each other’s personal
bubble of space.
Oh, to be a fly on that bowler hat
, thought Daymon,
wondering what kind of master plan those two were hatching.

Then the girls entered the vehicle—Jamie, whom he barely
recognized out of her ghillie suit, riding shotgun, and Jordan, taking the spot
behind Logan. Thanks to a shaft of daylight lighting the squat vehicle’s
interior, Daymon could see Gus in the back seat opposite Jordan.

The doors thumped shut and the Tahoe’s tuned engine burbled
to life. Daymon saw Duncan clasp Logan’s hand and give him a parting hug
through the open window. Finally the loaded-down Tahoe pulled away and bumped
across the spongy soil towards the gravel feeder road, its needle antennas
whipping the air. Then a white Toyota SUV with Chief at the wheel and Lev in
the passenger seat transited the clearing and entered the feeder road close on
Logan’s bumper.

***

Approaching with a broad grin on his face, Duncan locked
eyes with Daymon and said, “What are you doing out here dressed like that?
You’re gonna catch cold.”

Wanting nothing more than to regurgitate Logan’s
who’s
the helicopter parent now
quip, Daymon restrained himself and said, “I
didn’t remember the Farmer’s Almanac calling for an early autumn.”

Duncan cackled morbidly and replied, “I didn’t remember that
worthless rag predicting an undead outbreak either.”

The comment brought another half-smile to Daymon’s face.
Rubbing his shoulders he said, “Touché’. Still think we ought to cut a few more
cords of wood. Probably gets pretty cold up here in winter.”

“That’s near the top of our to-do list,” said Duncan. “Hate
to change the subject on ya, but I’m gonna. What are you
really
doing
out here? Everything OK with you and the girl?”

“It’s getting to be more OK day by day,” Daymon said. He
palmed his chin, thinking,
What are you my dad?
Then he grabbed the back
of his skull and, twisting against the resistance, cracked his neck. Rolling
his head in a full circle, he grimaced and then asked matter-of-factly, “You
taking the chopper up?”

“After I thumb through
this
,” said Duncan, holding up
an inches’ thick ream of papers held together by three enormous silver rings,
on its cover the words:
Aircrew Training, Utility Helicopter, H-60 Series
,
and under the header in bold red letters the warning:
Property of Department
of Homeland Security, United States Customs and Border Protection.

“That kind of reading is bound to put a fella to sleep,”
quipped Daymon.

“This old guy doesn’t need any help,” said Duncan behind a
guttural chuckle.

“You gonna want an extra set of
eyes
when you go up?”
asked Daymon.

“More than you know,” Duncan said, clapping the taller man
on the shoulder. “You’re more than welcome to tag along.”

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Watch out for the traps,” said Duncan, hitching a brow.

Daymon pulled out the crude map Logan had drawn for him. “I
think I’ll be able to steer clear of them thanks to this,” he said.

Duncan made no reply. Instead handed over his two-way radio.

“What’s this for?”

“Call if you get in trouble,” answered Duncan. “It’s OK to
ask for help.” He winked and turned an about-face and, carrying himself like he
didn’t have a worry in the world, ambled towards the compound’s entrance.

After drawing in a couple of deep lungfuls of crisp morning
air, Daymon consulted the map, racked a round into the stubby combat shotgun
that used to be Duncan’s, and then bled into the forest, quiet and confident as
could be.

Bushnell, Nebraska

Interstate 80

Elvis woke up with an immediate need to empty his bladder,
but quickly found a more serious and deadly problem staring him in the face.

Overnight, more than a dozen walking cadavers had surrounded
the GMC, and now the truck’s windows were completely blocked by their ashen
faces.