Omega Days (Book 3): Drifters (20 page)

January 13—Central Chico

They had chosen the second deck of a small parking garage as their camp for the night. Dylan and Abbie were sleeping in a minivan, and parked next to them, Skye leaned against Carney in the back seat of an Escalade with tinted windows. Angie stood outside by a concrete wall, looking out at the dark city, her Galil cradled in her arms as she took watch.

Skye looked out at her friend, alone in the night. “Do you think Dean’s alive?” she said.

Carney didn’t move, warm and solid against her. “I’d like to think so. But this many months, on the run with a toddler? It’s a long shot.”

Skye sighed. She thought so too, but would never say as much to Angie. She wanted Dean to be alive, Leah too, and Angie said her husband was a combat veteran with some serious skills. Leah’s presence would void most of those abilities, she suspected, preventing him from waging war if the raiders showed up, slowing him down, and attracting the dead with the innocent noise two-year-olds made.

He was probably dead, Skye thought. She believed Angie thought it too, and because of that, her friend was dying inside. She had offered to stand watch with her, but Angie had brusquely asked to be left alone, and Skye had retreated to the Escalade.

“That earthquake today,” Skye said, changing the subject, “is that normal? I didn’t grow up in California.”

Carney shook his head. “That was good-sized, not normal at all. You saw the damage.”

She had. Several buildings had sagged into the street and crushed cars, telephone poles toppled, and a lot of windows shattered. It had knocked them off their feet as they fled the elementary school, running through the neighborhood. Every drifter they encountered was standing and swaying with the tremor, all facing the same direction. When the shaking stopped, they started moving at once. It was eerie.

Skye looked up at Carney in the darkness. “You believe me about what I saw, right? The red drifter that moved out of my rifle sight?”

“I believe you.”

She stared at him, looking for the lie. He saw her and laughed. “I do, I believe you. You said you saw it, so you did. It sounds dangerous.”

“It is,” she said. “Worse than the others. It could think.”

“And if we see it again,” Carney said, “we’ll kill it just like the others.”

They were quiet for a while. Skye watched Angie standing motionless as a stone and closed her eyes. “She’s going to decide soon.”

“Decide what?” Carney asked, his voice soft.

She hesitated. “Decide that Dean’s dead. Then it will be time to go after the ones who burned the ranch.” She felt Carney nod slowly. “We have to go with her,” Skye said. “
I
have to go.”

“And where do you think I’ll be?” asked the ex-con.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I talk too much.”

Carney’s big chest shook with a laugh. “Yeah, right.”

She smiled in the darkness. After a while she said, “Want to fool around?”

“Do you?”

Another sigh. “Not really.”

“Me either.”

Skye smiled again and shifted closer against him, burying her face in his chest, breathing him in.

•   •   •

A
ngie rolled her shoulder where TC’s bullet had passed through, then rubbed at the soreness in her forearm, the fracture still healing. Both hurt. The hurt in her chest was worse.

She was out of tears. Standing at the four-foot wall of the parking garage, staring down at dark buildings and streets where there had once been life, Angie realized she had been here before. Except then it had been the rooftop of a firehouse in Alameda, looking down upon a world fast being overrun by the walking dead, alone and longing for her family. Nothing had changed but the location.

Dean would have gone down fighting, she knew, down to the last bullet and knife thrust, using his bare hands to give Leah just a few more seconds of life. For her daughter, she prayed the end had been quick, and that she hadn’t been too scared.

A single tear rolled down her cheek.
Almost
out of tears, she thought, and a tiny, sad smile accompanied her sob. There was nothing left in her world, only death. The moans of earth’s new conquerors floated through the night air.

The tear dried on her face, and no more followed.

Then, at five minutes past midnight, the earth began to tremble again, a mild vibration at first, then steadily building, shaking left to right and up and down at the same time. Cracks raced across concrete flooring and up pillars. Parked cars slid into one another, and Angie had to hold on to the concrete wall to keep from falling. Beyond the parking garage, the second story of a house dropped inward with a cloud of drywall and splintered beams.

Foreshock,
Angie’s mind screamed. The one earlier in the day had been a foreshock, a warning of things to come. The thought was only a flash from a primitive place deep inside her brain, but in that instant she knew it was true. The quake built in intensity, stretching out in length and violence.

The door to the minivan rolled open and Abbie cried, “What’s happening?”

The groan of the moving parking garage drowned out the woman’s cries, and Angie lunged for the Escalade, banging a fist against its hood. “We’ve got to get out of here!” she screamed.

Then there was a roar of broken concrete and twisted rebar as the support pillars on this level crumbled, dropping the upper deck onto Angie and her friends.

•   •   •

T
en point six. Four minutes long. The most massive earthquake in the recorded history of civilization. It was the great killer, the one feared for generations, the stuff of apocalypse and nightmares.

The devastating shocks felt in Chico, California, were merely ripples from the epicenter 170 miles away. That location was centered beneath the old naval air station at Alameda, and the destruction it wreaked was biblical. Cities fell, mountains and ridges shifted and collapsed, and the Pacific Ocean rushed in like a wild animal intent upon the kill.

For those in the San Francisco Bay Area who felt the full force of Mother Nature’s murderous blow—Father Xavier, Rosa, Evan, and others—the quake was only the beginning of the nightmare.

January 13—Near the Skyway

“There,” Braga said, pointing the flashlight with Titan standing beside him. In their other hands they carried shotguns. “There.” He moved the flashlight beam. “And over there too.”

Each time the circle of light stopped, it revealed dead people moving slowly toward them over the bare ground. Their three pickups and the burned remains of the Franks ranch were behind them, the place where the raiders had tried to settle in for the night. They had all learned of the arrival of the walking dead when one of the men from the trucks stepped away into the dark to urinate, then screamed as something caught hold of him. There was a brief flurry of gunfire as half a dozen corpses were shot down making their way toward the trucks. Now the bikers stood on the dirt road near their Harleys.

“How many you think?” Titan asked.

Braga turned and panned the flashlight left to right on the other side of the road. A dozen more dead faces snarled back at them, drawing closer.

“Shit, I dunno. Can’t tell in the dark.”

Back at the trucks, more flashlights clicked on. Voices rose in alarm at the sight of packs of the undead moving steadily closer.

“Doesn’t matter,” said Braga. “We sure as hell can’t stay here.”

Titan spoke into a walkie-talkie, demanding that Corrigan respond. There was nothing but silence.

“I’m gonna kill that motherfucker when we get back,” Titan said.

“I’ll help you, bro.” Braga turned toward the trucks. “Load up,” he shouted. “We’re going to check that other ranch, then head home tonight.”

A weak cheer went up.

Within minutes, the two motorcycles were leading the line of trucks back up the ranch road toward the Skyway. The bikes weaved around stumbling figures and the trucks simply knocked them out of the way.

•   •   •

T
he undead at the Franks ranch followed the direction the raiders had taken, hundreds strong. This was merely the vanguard, and the main body—what Halsey had dubbed the Stampede—moved through the forest on stiff legs, nearly two thousand corpses pushing through the underbrush, oblivious to the branches that tore at gray flesh or the rocks that skinned bare feet to the bone.

They were heading for the Skyway too.

•   •   •

T
he legion of ghouls from Paradise emerged from the tree line and headed toward the distant glow of a light in a cabin window, moving with jerking steps. Their feet dragged crooked trails through the thin snow at first, but soon their mass trampled the ground muddy as they crossed the fields.

At the front of the horde was a man in pale green hospital scrubs and a white doctor’s coat. In its forties when it died, the thing had long claw marks down the side of its face, and much of its scalp had been stripped down to the skull. Its filmy eyes were nearly the same shade as its scrubs. The boy in swim trunks with snow dusting his shoulders and head was walking beside the decaying doctor, arms limp and swinging at his sides, and they both came to a halt in the same moment. The two corpses tipped their heads back slowly and rotated to face the same direction, then stood motionless.

Around and behind them, the thousands of corpses from Paradise followed suit.

•   •   •

N
ot far up the highway, the small column of bikes and trucks was forced to wind its way between abandoned cars and lone, wandering corpses. Up on point, the two bikers came upon a pair of stone pillars on the right topped with carriage lights, straddling a brick driveway, the gate between them standing open.

Braga used a flashlight to look at his map. “This is it. Broken Arrow Ranch.”

Titan checked his pistol to be sure a round was in the chamber, then shoved it back in his shoulder holster. He was about to say something when the quake hit, dropping the bikes and sending the men scrambling. Behind them, the people in the trucks held on as the Skyway buckled. Pine trees groaned and crashed into the road, and one of the pillars with a carriage lamp shivered and collapsed to one side in a pile of bricks and concrete.

It was over quickly, lasting only a few minutes.

Braga and Titan cursed again at their banged-up Harleys and stood them upright.

“Sick of this shit,” said Braga. “Twice in one day.”

“Yeah, and that one was stronger,” Titan said, straddling his bike.

Braga waved to the others, and the column started up the long driveway toward Pepper’s Broken Arrow Ranch.

•   •   •

H
alsey was dreaming of the Wild Mouse, a jerking, steel frame roller coaster that came to his hometown with the carnival every summer of his childhood. His mother had worried that it wasn’t built well. “How can it be safe if they take it apart and put it back together every week?” she said. But his father said, “Don’t sugar the boy,” and let him ride. Halsey loved the sudden turns that threw him left and right, was thrilled by the rapid click of the steel tracks and the sudden plunges that sent his stomach up into his chest. He spent the entire ride with his eyes squeezed tight, laughing until tears streamed from the corners.

The sound of breaking glass was out of place. What was glass doing on a roller coaster? Then it came again and he opened his eyes, startled and unsure of where he was. Not a roller-coaster car, he realized, but in the comfortable armchair in front of his fireplace. A Coleman lantern glowed on the coffee table beside an empty glass and mostly empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Vladimir snored on the nearby couch.

The chair was shaking. Hell, the whole cabin was shaking. He saw the drink glass vibrate to the edge of the table and fall to join its broken companion—the glass that had shattered and woken him—on the floor. The bottle fell over and broke a second later.

“Vlad,” he grunted, making smacking noises with his mouth. It tasted like wet cotton, and his head still buzzed from the whiskey. How long ago had they fallen asleep? he wondered. It didn’t feel like much time had passed.

“Vladimir,” he said again, leaning over and slapping one of the pilot’s sock feet. “Are you feeling this?”

The Russian groaned and gripped the sides of the couch, mumbling something in his native language.

Something else crashed and broke in the kitchen, and Halsey snatched the lantern off the table just before it rattled off the side.
Earthquake,
he thought, trying to clear his head.
Bigger than before.
Instead of trying to stand, he remained in the chair, holding one padded arm and keeping the lantern aloft, riding out the tremor. The shaking stopped after a few minutes, and the two men looked at one another, blinking with red eyes.

“I have decided I do not like California,” Vladimir announced.

“Love it or leave it, Russkie,” Halsey grumbled, heading into the kitchen. “Watch your feet on the broken glass.”

Vladimir joined him, retrieving a broom and a dustpan to sweep up the glass fragments. Then he cleaned up a broken plate that had fallen from the kitchen counter.

“That was a bad one,” Halsey said, eyeing the rafters and walls, looking for damage. “I think we’re okay, though.”

Vladimir sat at the kitchen table and rubbed his temples. “You are a bad influence, my friend.”

Halsey snorted. “And you were a teetotaler before you met me.” When the Russian cocked his head at the unfamiliar term, Halsey just laughed. Then he noticed the window to the left of the cabin door, its heavy shutters still open.
Careless. Showing our lights to anything that might be looking.
He moved to the window and started to close the shutters.

A face slammed against it hard enough to crack a pane, bared teeth squeaking across the glass. It had yellow eyes with pinpoint pupils, and its nose had been chewed away.

“Goddamn!” Halsey yelled, slamming and bolting the shutters.

Something thumped against the cabin door. Something else smashed against the window on the opposite side, breaking glass behind the shutters. Muffled moaning floated through the door. Without a word, Halsey and Vladimir immediately began to move through the small house, ensuring that it was tightly sealed. Then they pulled on boots and coats and headed up the ladder to Halsey’s tower, the ranch hand bringing his .22 rifle with him. Out in the cold air, the men stood next to each other and peered into the dark night as a breeze dropped snowflakes on their cheeks. They could see nothing, but the growls from below were unmistakable, and they came from several sides of the cabin. The groaning of more creatures drifted up from the packed-dirt yard out front.

“I can’t see to shoot them,” Halsey said, rifle to his shoulder as he strained to pick out a target.

“In my helicopter,” Vladimir said, looking in the direction where the Black Hawk would be, “is a box above both the pilot’s and co-pilot’s seats. I have night-vision goggles in them.”

“They don’t do us much good out there.”

Vladimir climbed back down into the cabin, and when he returned minutes later he was carrying a flashlight and wearing his Browning automatic in a shoulder holster under his open coat.

“We can’t tell how many there are,” the ranch hand said, looking at his friend.

Vlad gave him a smile and said, “Then I will have to run very fast.” He climbed over the low wall of the tower before dropping down to the cabin’s sloped roof.