Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (41 page)

Somehow over the whine of the gas turbine to the fore, he
heard from behind the resonant clatter of something metallic striking the
floor. Then the distinct rattle of a swivel attached to a rifle’s sling. Next:
the
schlack-schlack
of an AR charging handle being pulled back and sent
home. Finally, urgent footsteps as Jamie and Gus formed up, one on either side
of him.

Jordan had done her part.

Now his mind was racing—but not nearly as fast as the source
of the second noise which had just ripped by mere feet above the steaming red
earth, made a tight turn, and was now heading straight at them.

Then the noise rose to a pitch where he couldn’t think or
even hear his own voice, which if he could, would be telling him to move, to
take action.

But his feet seemed rooted, and to add to the sensory
bombardment, gritty, silt-laden water blasted his eyes and face, blinding him
further, feeling like a thousand needle pricks on his exposed skin. Then the
air around him crackled—sonic tremors whose origin he had a hard time placing.
He heard the person to his right groan like the wind had been knocked from their
lungs. But before he could look in that direction he felt his bowler hat lift
from his head. And then the last thing he felt—before the world went black—was
a hand, soft and feminine, grasping ahold of his.

Schriever AFB

Continuing the age-old battle between night and day, the sun
had risen a few more degrees in the sky and, with each passing second,
prevailed in burning off more of the unusual fog that had descended on the
airbase overnight and seemed hell-bent on sticking around until noon.

Cade held on tight as Brook turned a hard right that caused
the cart’s wheels to squeal against the glossy cement floor of the near-empty
hangar whose jumbo-jet-accommodating-doors seemed to always be open. As she
zippered between a number of static aircraft, Cade noticed a pair of the 160th
SOAR Squadron’s MH-60 Black Hawk helicopters, panels popped open, their
innards—wiring and hydraulic tubing and anodized aluminum fittings—exposed for
all to see. Then his gaze found the lone surviving Ghost Hawk, its silhouette
low and sleek, carbon fiber rotors drooping, sad looking—he could almost sense
it yearning to once again get airborne.

But it wasn’t a living thing. A helicopter wasn’t capable of
emotion. Maybe he was sensing Ari, somewhere, lamenting the fact that he’d been
passed over for the job of ferrying a Special Forces team on a mission back
East to find some very specialized equipment for the scientists who had just
begun working on the Omega antiserum.

“
Cade
. You have that look. What are you thinking
about?” asked Brook as she slowed the Cushman and craned around, searching for
the massive black Ford F-650 pick-up that had been nosed in against the wall
when last she’d seen it.

“Change.”

“Been lots of that lately.”

“Where’s the truck you told me about, Mom? Can’t be that
big,” Raven said, moving her gaze around the hangar, a mirror image of her mom,
“I don’t see it anywhere.”

Over the puttering engine noise and squeak of rubber echoing
from the high rafters, Cade called from the rear seat for Brook to stop.

Brook complied. Flicked the switch, silencing the engine.

Cade untangled his crutches, rose to standing and clacked
over to the spot where the truck had been parked. He checked his pockets and
came out with the keys with the blue oval on the fob. Veins on his neck thick
like cables, he turned a ragged spiral and then reared his head back and
bellowed, “Whipper!”

Eden Compound

Daymon continued hiking south along the fence line,
consulting the map provided by Logan every now and again. He’d only been at it
for a few minutes, and was making good time when he encountered the rotter.
Trapped from the knees down in one of Duncan’s Punji pits, the thing hissed and
clacked its teeth, straining mightily against the sharpened stakes in an attempt
to get at the nearby fresh meat.

“Talking loud. Ain’t saying nothing,” said Daymon, drawing
his machete from its sheath. He shrugged off the shotgun and approached the
creature with caution. He didn’t know exactly how the traps worked, nor what
they could do to a human, so he edged closer to get a better look.

But the undead thirty-something began to follow him—first
the eyes—shark-like, never wavering. Then by twisting its torso around,
exposing to Daymon presumably how it had died. Like most first turns he’d seen,
it had defensive wounds, nicks and scratches and bites all up and down its
arms. But that hadn’t killed this one. The coup de gras came in the form of a
massive bleed out. Like many of the others he’d seen since fleeing Utah in the
early days of the outbreak, this one’s neck had become someone’s meal. He could
see vertebra and shiny corded muscle and veins, masses of little snaking
capillaries still clogged with congealed blood swaying and whipping with its
every movement.

And as it flailed and grabbed at him, the sound of tendon
and sinew snapping as rotted flesh and muscle was pitted against the sharpened
saplings made Daymon wince.

Gotta do it.
“Sorry, man,” he said as the machete
scythed the air. He winced again as the sharp steel cleaved into the rotter’s
temple and stuck there. Then he held on tight to the handle and let the weight
of the monster and gravity do the rest.

As the thing hinged over, both bones in its lower leg
snapped at odd angles, letting the body fall completely flat and causing
Daymon’s blade to pop free.

Daymon wiped the blade on some nearby grass. Looked east up
the road and saw that the other rotters were still cresting the apex of 39 near
where Lev was. He swung his head around west and saw nothing to be worried
about. Then he fished in his pocket and brought out his map. He rummaged in the
other and produced a Sharpie on its last legs. He marked the map with a tiny
faded
DR
, his own little reminder that the dead rotter was there and
would have to be dealt with later.

***

Though Logan had only been gone for a short time, Duncan
rotated the volume knob up a couple of clicks, thumbed the call button on the
two-way radio, and tried to hail him.

Initially there was no response. He double-checked that the
Motorola was tuned to channel 10-1, then tried a few more times, still getting
nothing but static. He was about to give up when Lev came on and said Logan was
out of radio range and wasn’t expected back for a couple of hours. “Copy that,”
replied Duncan sharply. Reluctantly, he turned the volume low and tossed the
radio on the chopper’s left seat. Took a sip from a bottled water. Lastly he
scanned his surroundings and reburied his head in the technical manual for the
DHS Black Hawk while trying his best to push the worry he was feeling for his
baby brother to the back of his mind.

Schriever AFB

Exactly ninety seconds after Cade began braying the first
sergeant’s name, he heard distant footsteps, a kind of high-speed shuffling
interspersed with harsh squeaks echoing from the steel ceiling and walls. He
looked up from the scrolling black digital numbers on the face of his Suunto
and fixed a smoldering gaze on the older man who had sworn days earlier that
their differences were a thing of the past, and, in the man’s own words,
“The
hatchet has been buried.”

That Brook and Raven were covering their ears and no doubt
mortified didn’t even make a blip on Cade’s give-a-shit radar. He was beyond
livid and—like Luke being beckoned to the Dark Side by Vader—was in danger of
losing out to his anger and following up on an earlier threat, the result of
which would be one man dead, and him locked up in the security pod.

Cade cast his gaze on the second Cushman, where Sasha looked
on mouth agape and Wilson was slumped in his seat, knees cresting the short
windshield, only the top of his boonie hat showing.

Refocusing his attention on the approaching man, dressed in
greasy coveralls and kneading a similarly-soiled rag, Cade stood tall as
possible—considering the crutches jammed into his armpits—and said through
gritted teeth, “Whipper, where in the eff did you put my Ford?”

“I’m hooking it up for you,” the crusty first sergeant
answered with a sly smile.

“What ... you up-armoring it for me?”

“No need. Nothing’s getting into that thing. And last I
checked, the Zs aren’t planting roadside IEDs.”

Grimacing, Cade said, “You’d be surprised at what you’d
encounter outside the wire.”

Whipper made no reply.

Cade looked at Brook and shook his head. He jangled the keys
at Whipper and said, “I have these. How’d you move the rig?”

“Same way we move aircraft around here. Follow me.”

Wanting to exhibit zero weakness, Cade clunked along
double-time and caught up to Whipper. They passed the Ghost Hawk, with the
procession of Cushman carts creeping behind them. Then they passed by Whipper’s
battered yellow door and stepped onto the tarmac with the carts still shadowing
them. “Here she is,” said Whipper proudly, like he was showing off a piece of
artwork or a new grandkid. “They’re just about finished with her.”

Eden Compound

The second Daymon’s eyes snapped open, a vague sense of
unease descended over him, a feeling that something was definitely wrong—but he
couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

Considering the nightmare he’d just been starring in, and
the fact that he was once again inside the metal cocoon that, for the time
being, he begrudgingly called home, the realization that he wasn’t perspiring
profusely or fighting his demons for every breath came at a great surprise to
him.
Amazing
, he thought to himself,
how a copious amount of fresh
air coupled with a good deal of strenuous exercise can knock a guy out
. But
the same thing held true when he’d been fighting fire in his old life. Cutting
back brush and preparing fire-breaks had always had the same exact
effect—instantaneous deep sleep—no matter the cramped one-man-tent nor his
proximity to the all-too-real danger of being burned to death.

He passed the time waiting for the cobwebs to dissipate by
listening to Heidi’s breathing and staring towards the ceiling that he knew was
there but couldn’t see. Her respiration was measured—slow, and steady—and from
the sound of it, she was experiencing a good round of much needed REM sleep.
For a brief second he contemplated waking her, and just as quickly decided to
let her be. That it was nearing noon had no bearing on his decision. The woman
had been through a lot since the fall of Jackson Hole. Nothing wrong with a
little sleeping in.
Besides
, he thought,
down here, without a watch,
there’s no way of knowing whether it’s day or night
.

After finding his boots in the dark, he felt around and
snatched up his shotgun and machete. Maintaining a modicum of stealth, he made
it through the door and into the outer passage, leaving Heidi still sound
asleep inside.

Meaning to go topside, he turned the corner, passed by
Phillip who was still pulling time on the radios, and ran headlong into Duncan.

The two men, moving in opposite directions, bounced off of
each other.

Rubbing his sternum, Daymon said, “Whoa, Trigger.” He hiked
up his shirt and was relieved to find that his pink “pet worms”—as Heidi had
taken to calling the scars on his abdomen—hadn’t split open again. Then, as he
set his gaze on Duncan, a cold ball formed in his gut. Since the virus and its
undead consequences had swept the nation, he’d seen this look on people’s faces
more times than he cared to remember. The usually rosy-cheeked cowboy was
pale—stark white—like he’d just rubbed elbows with Death himself.

Duncan removed his glasses and wiped the lenses. Then, as if
fighting some dire emotion, he took a deep breath and said, “This is one of
those be-careful-what-you-wish-for moments, because I’m here to tell you that
I’m taking you up on your offer.”

Saying nothing, Daymon pinned his dreads behind his ears and
held his breath. Finally, mind going a mile a minute, he exhaled but remained
silent, stoic in the face of the coming fight with Heidi which he knew making
the correct decision here and now was apt to bring on. But still, he owed the
old man for going out of his way and delivering him to his little house in
Driggs. For if he’d never made it home and got ahold of Lu Lu, he’d never have
made it to Jackson Hole and reconnected with Heidi in the first place. So,
though he’d expected the reconnaissance flight to be tomorrow, he had no choice
but to say yes right here and now.

“Take some time. Mull it over,” Duncan said with a thick
drawl. “And then I’ll see you topside in five.” His face relaxed a bit but his
body language—stooped shoulders, head hanging ever so slightly—was unchanged.

The sound of a chair scooting back broke the silence, and
Daymon noticed Phil staring at him from behind Duncan’s elbow.

“Yes, I’ll go up with you,” Daymon finally said, causing
Duncan to double-take and make an instant about-face where he stood. “But why
today? Why right now? And why in the eff do you look like you just saw a
ghost?”

Schriever AFB

The twin-engine, tandem-rotor Chinook MH-47, measuring
ninety-nine feet from nose to tail, and nearly thirty feet from tarmac to the
top mast of the rear rotor, made the oversized Ford F-650 parked alongside look
like a child’s toy.

At first glance, Cade couldn’t see what Whipper and his
ground crew had done to the rig. But by the time he had hobbled within spitting
distance, it was obvious to him what the wispy-haired sergeant had in mind.
Before he could mount any kind of a protest, Whipper had closed the distance
and started yammering—more in the interest of self-preservation than an act of
cordiality. When the small talk was out of the way, Cade said, “What the hell
has gotten in to you, Whipper?”