Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (45 page)

The flight engineer handed Taryn a pair of neon yellow muffs
which she donned and benefitted from immediately as a shrill whine emanated
from a nearby hydraulic piston. The rectangle of daylight quickly shrank to
nothing, and a handful of seconds after the noise began the ramp bumped into
the closed position and the whine subsided.

As Cade flicked his gaze between the engineer who was busy
folding a seat down for Taryn, and Raven and Sasha who were giddy and beaming
because their new friend had changed her mind and come aboard, Wilson hinged up
and looked aft.

Moving faster than any operator or Chinook crewmember Cade
had ever seen perform the task, Wilson pulled a move that would make Harry
Houdini proud and was unbuckled, up and out of his seat, and embracing the
young woman in record time.

Oblivious—this time of everyone
but
Taryn—Wilson
emerged from his shell and, helmet be damned, planted a clumsy kiss on her
lips. A kiss that was reciprocated and drew a couple of emphatic “grosses” from
Raven and Sasha and a big ear-to-ear grin from Brook.

Looking down the fuselage at the spectacle, Ari broke in
over the shipwide comms and said, “Night Stalker Airways would like to remind
our valued passengers that this is
not
a
Mile-High-Club-sanctioned-flight. Please be seated and we’ll be resuming our
hop to Mack momentarily.”

Shaking his head, the burly flight engineer showed Taryn to
the seat he’d prepared and buckled her in.

Eden Compound

Coming in fast like he was landing a fully-loaded Huey into
a hot LZ in the jungles of Vietnam, Duncan dropped them from the sky like a
Yo-Yo and at the last moment flared the Black Hawk, settling it softly dead
center on the expanse of green grass, wheels straddling the dirt airstrip.

Heart hammering in his chest wildly from the recent specter
of riding another helicopter into the ground, Daymon detected the stars
crowding his vision and finally remembered to breathe. Drawing in a lungful of
fresh air, he cast his gaze around the clearing and noticed the lack of a
welcoming party. And given the racket the helo produced, he knew the meadow
shouldn’t be deserted. He looked toward the compound’s entrance but saw no
movement.

Momentarily ignoring Daymon, who once again was as white as
a ghost, Duncan pored over the instrument panel, checking all of the systems the
manual listed as critical to staying in the air.

Satisfied, he powered down the turbines, setting the rotor
into a slow spin, and said, “Get on the two-way and have someone come out and
help with the bodies.”

“All right,” replied Daymon, fumbling in his pocket and
hunting for the Motorola he’d taken off of Logan’s bullet-riddled corpse.
Thumbing it on, he asked, “Thing is set to 10-1. Is that the right channel?”

“Affirmative. Tell them to make it snappy because I’m hoping
to catch those Huntsville bastards with their pants down.” An awful vision of
Jamie and Jordan enduring Lord knows what at the hands of their captors flooded
Duncan’s mind. Shaking it off, he glanced back at his
cargo
. Because
that’s what he believed the two human bodies had been reduced to. Minus the
soul or spirit or whatever the moniker du-jour, they were just shells leaking
blood onto the cabin floor.
Logan and Gus
, he thought,
were somewhere
much better
. At least he hoped they were. And that’s where his faith kicked
in. He had to remain faithful considering the times he was living in.

“This is Daymon,” he said, thumbing the call button on the
two-way. “We’re back and we need a couple of extra bodies out here in the
clearing.”

A second passed, then the radio crackled to life and Phil indicated
that he and Chief were coming topside.

***

Less than a minute later, Daymon watched Phil and Chief
emerge from the foliage, change course and set off on a sprint towards him.

Rifle in hand, sling flailing wildly against his leg,
Phillip, who was rail-thin and lighter by at least thirty pounds, led the two
through the rotor-wash-whipped grass. Brandishing a stunted shotgun, his glossy
black ponytail bouncing with each footfall, Chief, who was built like a
fireplug and at least a head shorter, somehow matched Phil stride-for-stride.

Sans helmet or weapon, Daymon ran full tilt and met them
halfway, about fifty yards from the idling chopper, where they could talk and
not have their words drowned out by the din of the rotating blades.

Taking it slow, sparing no detail, he filled them in on the
events at the quarry, where Duncan’s state of mind was, and where he feared
Logan’s murder was about to take the man. Using Apocalypse Now as a reference,
he said, “Think Colonel Kurtz times a thousand.” Succinct and to the point,
Chief and Phillip grasped the statement’s full meaning. Then Daymon heaped upon
them the unenviable task of moving the bodies inside one of the abandoned
vehicles where the animals couldn’t get to them. Lastly, he asked them to carry
the black Pelican case inside, stating that it would be well worth their while
before imploring them to peruse its contents.

And just when he was finished talking he caught a flash of
movement in his peripheral vision.

Heidi was standing near the entrance, dappled in sunlight.
He had no idea how long she’d been there but she was a sight. Sparing her from
seeing the grim task Chief and Phil were about to undertake, he strode across
the meadow to her side and guided her behind the blind where they shared a
much-needed embrace.

After a couple of minutes passed, Daymon pulled away first,
looked down into her eyes and said, “Logan and Gus are dead.” Without allowing
the words to fully register, he pressed on. “And Jamie and Jordan are missing.”

“Missing or abducted?” she said, her voice rising.

Just as he’d feared, she was right back to square one—he
could detect it in her eyes. The sparkle had been extinguished with his words
still hanging in the air.

“I’m going to help Duncan look for them,” he lied. Truth
was, he was going along
only
to save Old Man from himself. He’d been
there before. Rage alone made him allow Hosford Preston to get eaten by the
dead. As the old saying went,
the devil made me do it
. Or in this
case—not do it. It was the black Glock bucking in his fist and the exploding
faces of the three hissing corpses that always visited first. But it was the
inevitable cameo appearance of the lawyer’s fear-etched face that woke him from
his nightmares every time. If only he would have listened to Cade, things would
have turned out different. His soul would be a little bit cleaner. Done was
done. He couldn’t change the past. But he might, however, be able to help keep
Duncan from making the same kind of mistake. One he might regret for the rest
of his life.

“Jordan and Jamie?” reiterated Heidi.

“We’re not sure,” said Daymon, a million different thoughts
running through his mind. “But there were only the two bodies so at least
there’s a chance they may have fought the bad guys off and escaped.” The
lies—which even by omission counted just the same—continued to pile on as he
left out the condition in which they’d found the Tahoe and the fact that
Jordan’s rifle had been left behind.

Heidi said sharply, “Tran was right. They’re still out
there.” She pulled away from him and back-pedaled, a look of incredulity on her
features.

“I’d be willing to bet it was the same people they tangled
with the other day. Stirred them up too much.” He went quiet. Steeled himself
for what might end up being yet another lie. “Don’t worry, hon. Me and Duncan
... we will find them alive.”

Heidi made a face. “And that’s almost worse than dying,” she
spat. “’Cause I’m living it.”

Daymon made no reply. He watched her disappear into the
compound. He didn’t follow, and when she was gone, he retrieved the compact
Thuraya sat phone from his pocket and thumbed it on. He checked the display and
came away pleased because he had reception. He scrolled through the incoming
calls. Found the most recent one from Cade days ago. Took a deep breath and hit
the green call button. Three electronic trills later, the call was answered by
a computerized female voice telling him to leave a message after the tone. A
tick later the voice was proven right, and a sound that some focus group
somewhere had determined would lead to the most people resisting the urge to
hang up beeped in his ear. Hanging up for Duncan’s sake, hell, for all of their
sakes for that matter, was a luxury he could not afford. So, grudgingly, he
began to relay the happenings from the last couple of days. Halfway through
recounting the story, but before he’d even touched over the most important fact
of the tale, the same sound blared in his ear. In disbelief he thumbed the
phone off and back on and then immediately hit redial, hoping this time,
assuming Cade didn’t pick up, that he’d be able to relay the pertinent
information in the allotted time.

He listened to the same three electronic trills, then waited
for the long dead focus group’s chosen tone to sound. After the beep, he cut to
the chase, spilling about Logan and Gus and the missing girls. Then he slowed
down and voiced his concerns about Duncan. He finished by nearly begging Cade
to call him back ASAFP—as soon as fucking possible.

He killed the call and pocketed the phone. A beat later he
detected a sudden change in pitch to the Black Hawk’s twin-turbines.
Simultaneously the rotor swish picked up, rising to a crescendo. On the move,
he jammed the phone in a cargo pocket, rounded the blind and couldn’t believe
what he was looking at. The Pelican case was on the ground a dozen feet off the
Black Hawk’s nose. Beyond the helo, near the tree line, Phillip and Chief were
struggling to fit one of the wrapped bodies into the rear of the white Land
Cruiser. And the helicopter was bouncing, light on its wheels, with only Duncan
at the controls. Then the rear boom lifted to horizontal, and just like that
the Black Hawk was airborne, rotor thumping out man-made thunder claps, clawing
its way into the azure sky.

Waving his arms frantically, Daymon ran across the clearing
trying in vain to get Duncan’s attention. He made it to the dirt strip just as
the craft banked sharply starboard. He caught a glimpse of helmet, a sun-glint
from Duncan’s glasses, followed by a flash of recognition as the man turned his
head and looked groundward.

Hinged at the waist, stomach heaving from the sudden spate
of exertion, Daymon pivoted slowly, tracking the helicopter as it circled the
clearing. Then he realized that Duncan was coming back around for him and he
was standing in the man’s landing spot. So he sidestepped a few yards, ducked
and held his dreadlocks against the rotor wash, and clambered aboard once the
helo settled on its landing gear.

The reception he received was about what he’d expected.
Sure, he’d spent a little more time consoling Heidi than he probably should
have. But deep down he had a feeling Duncan had been looking for an excuse to
go it alone. Nobody to answer to that way, Daymon surmised.

Bringing the chopper around in a slow lazy half-circle,
Duncan spotted the gray stripe of 39 through the trees and followed it west.
“What took you so long?” he said, keeping his eyes forward.

“Had to tell Heidi what happened at the quarry.”

“You tell her the girls are missing?”

“I kind of sugar-coated it. Painted a rosier picture than
I’m seeing.”

Duncan looked left. Fixed his gaze on Daymon. “So you lied.”

“Omitted.”

“Lied,” pressed Duncan.

“Tomato, to-mah-to,” Daymon shot back. “Didn’t help. She
went right back to thinking the boogeyman is waiting outside her door.”

“And he ain’t?” said Duncan. “Look down there.” He slowed
the Black Hawk and closed to within a hundred feet of the roadway, holding it
in a ragged hover.

Below them, a group of thirty or forty creatures trudged
eastbound away from Huntsville and the rather densely populated city of Ogden,
a mere fifteen miles west of there. Slowly, collectively, their heads panned
skyward and their dead eyes fixed on the noisy vessel they instinctually knew
contained fresh meat.

“I’m talking about Bishop,” said Daymon, throwing a shiver
at the sight of the flesh-eaters. “He’s the one who took her from work. Now he
comes back in her dreams and haunts her nightly.”

“What about the Robert Christian guy?”

“He’s no threat to her now because he’s out of the picture.
Cade said he’s locked up tight at Schriever.”

Duncan went quiet and nosed the helo a few degrees to
starboard. Panned his eyes over the scrolling countryside as the forest gave
way to the same rolling hills he and Phillip had traversed earlier on their
approach to Huntsville in the SUV. A tick later, still standing a stone’s throw
from 39 was the Shell sign, untouched and ridiculously bright yellow. But the
gas station next to it, from the air, looked like something a kid had built out
of an erector set and then torched in a fit of rage. Out back, shielded from
the road, were a number of burnt-out cars and a drift of blackened corpses.

“Took care of them the only way they knew how,” observed
Daymon.

“Look what it got them. Burned the whole place down around
them. It’s a shame ‘cause eventually, to gas up the rigs, we’re gonna need to
find a station like it, or a fuel truck or something.”

Daymon made no reply. Kept his eyes on the road below until
they came upon a rise and Duncan slowed the Black Hawk to a crawl.

“Down there,” said Duncan, pointing out the carnage at the
head of the massive bumper-to-bumper traffic jam, where, contrasting sharply
against the blacktop, at least a dozen pale nude corpses lay. “Those ... were
National Guard soldiers. I’d be willing to bet the same animals that killed
them were the ones who killed Gus and my brother.”