Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 9): Frayed (10 page)

Once the Chevy was on 39 and pointing west, Cade closed the
camouflaged gate and cast a cursory glance at the CCTV domes. Superintendent or
not, Foley had come through again. The shroud above the domes seemed to add
ample protection from the elements without adding much to the entire unit’s
profile. Which set him at ease, because if a person didn’t know where he or she
was looking, the likelihood of it being spotted from the road was slim to none.
And those were the kind of odds Duncan was always crowing about, so Cade
figured they were the kind he could live with.

Before boarding the truck, he removed a glove and dug the
Motorola from his pocket. He called up Seth and asked him how the view was.

“Crystal clear,” came the man’s reply.

“Is the external audio mic working?”

“I can’t hear you and you’re what … ten feet away?”

“About,” Cade replied. “Can you hear the truck’s engine?”

“Nope.”

“One thing at a time, I guess,” Cade conceded. “Can’t expect
Foley to work miracles considering the circumstances.”

“Roger that,” Seth replied.

“We’ll be switching over to the handheld CB soon. Make sure
yours is powered on with fresh batteries.”

“Copy that,” Seth called back. “And you guys all come back,
ya hear.
Stay frosty
out there.”

“Roger that,” Cade said. “No pun intended, right?”

“I’m not that witty,” said Seth.

Cade listened to the younger man’s laughter then heard him
say
Over and out
like some kind of trucker and the connection finally
went silent. He stood there for a three-count then pocketed the radio and
crawled in the bed with his back against the cab. And as the truck pulled
strongly to the west, his eyes were locked on the flowers up the hill and he
realized how they were more than just an acknowledgement of the dead. That they
were also more than just a device to pretty up the ground while simultaneously
punctuating their passing and gaining some kind of closure in return. To him,
at that moment, the flowers represented the vibrant and bright souls of the
survivors he was glad to know and surround himself with. And, conversely, the
stark white snow was the perfect metaphor for the cold cruel world closing in
on them.

***

At the intersection with 16, Dregan turned left, drove a
short distance and parked a dozen yards south of the herd. He regarded the dead
that had obviously been run over. Then he looked at the ones he had culled with
the sword. Finally he wielded the binoculars and swept the head of the column.
Though he couldn’t be a hundred percent certain, the monsters there looked to
be just how he saw them last, albeit sporting a little more snow on their heads
and shoulders where the standing ones were concerned.

He saw a murder of crows strutting about the ground, hopping
upon the fallen corpses, but largely staying away from their gaping maws.

He exited the truck and slammed the door, causing the birds
to take flight in an explosion of black feather and excited chatter. As he
crunched forward, sword in hand, he watched a pair of pissed-off raptors alight
on an upright corpse and their combined weight start a massive chain reaction.
When all was said and done, the crows were again airborne and twenty or more of
the semi-frozen monsters had clanked together and were settling on the roadway
in various poses. Some reached skyward with gnarled fingers. Others had settled
almost board flat, their mouths ajar and readily accepting the falling snow.

Dregan approached one of the standing creatures, drew the
Viking steel and slid the scabbard between his hip and belt. He stopped an
arm’s reach from the biter, brought the sword over his head and held it there,
two-handed. “Fuck you,” he muttered and delivered a vicious chopping blow that
split the leering abomination vertically from skull to breastbone, where the
sword stuck fast. He tugged once and the corpse remained upright and wavering,
the sword wedged firmly.
When all else fails
, he thought.
Put the
boot to them.
And he did, his size thirteen boot in front of an explosive
kick to the stiffened flesh-eater’s chest sending it crashing to the road.
One
down, millions to go.

Curious as to how the cold had affected its brain, Dregan
moved around to its head and probed the gray matter with the sword’s tip.
Expecting to find the outer lobes frozen solid, the opposite was true. Like the
inner core—cerebral cortex is what he thought it was called—the outer matter
was moist and soft and he hadn’t a clue why. A light jab from the sword’s tip
to one eyeball was met with much resistance. Upon further probing he found that
it was beginning to freeze.

Having seen enough to confuse him completely, Dregan
returned to his vehicle, tossed the sword on the passenger seat, and climbed
behind the wheel. A tick later, after performing a tight U-turn, he was
motoring south with the soothing sounds of Bach and thrum of rolling tires
serenading him.

***

At that very moment, sixteen miles to the west as the crow
flies, Cade was clambering out of the Chevy with his fully loaded ruck on and
the suppressed M4 in hand. He checked that the spare magazines for his carbine
were snugged securely into their slots on his chest rig then zipped his parka
up around his bearded chin and watched the others gear up and assemble.

Daymon shrugged on his battered Kelty, which was bulging in
odd places because the bulky car battery and jumper cables were now shoehorned
inside along with the rest of his gear. He wore Kindness, his aptly named
machete, strapped to his right leg. The stubby shotgun Duncan had bequeathed
him weeks ago was dangling off his left shoulder by a short nylon strap. And as
if he wasn’t already loaded down enough, the lanky former BLM firefighter
snatched the Stihl chainsaw off the truck’s open tailgate and manhandled it
over his shoulder, where he balanced it horizontally and held it there with one
gloved hand gripping the business end of the flat guide bar.

“Got the kitchen sink anywhere on your person?”

“No, Cade. I left that at the compound,” Daymon shot back.
“I’ve got a Snickers bar in here somewhere, though. Carry the saw and you can
have it.”

“I like ‘em,” Cade replied. “But not that much. And thanks—”

One-handed, Daymon snugged the Kelty’s waist belt tight.
Finished, he looked at Cade and said, “Thanks for what?”

Cade reached into his jacket pocket and came out with
something in hand. He unwrapped it slowly and when he was finished, displayed
the faded brown wrapper with its easily identifiable logo facing Daymon and
took a big bite, chewed slowly and swallowed. “For reminding me this was in my
pocket. That’s what,” he said through chocolate-stained teeth. “It’s been in
there for weeks.”

Sitting a dozen feet away and loaded down with a pack and
shotgun of his own, Duncan called, “Holding out on us, huh Cade?”

Cade said nothing. He just finished off the candy bar and
stuffed the wrapper in a pocket.

“Let’s go,” said Wilson, impatience evident in his voice.
His Todd Helton was perched on one shoulder and he was standing
shoulder-to-shoulder with Taryn, their matching Beretta pistols on opposing
hips and nearly touching.

Meanwhile, back at the truck, Lev and Jamie had just
finished splitting up the group’s food and had stowed it in their matching
desert-tan soft packs.

Daymon and Duncan were already on the other side of the
roadside ditch and passing the time ribbing each other. Cade interrupted the
grab-assing and said, “Felix. Oscar. Why don’t you two go ahead. We’ll catch up
with you.”

Duncan flipped Cade the bird but there was no questioning
the request. Daymon turned and melted into the forest. Duncan shrugged and
smiled and then followed the boot prints in the snow.

Daymon pushed through knee-high ferns and ankle-grabbing
undergrowth and when he finally emerged from the first layer of forest, he
halted and leaned against a freshly cut stump to wait for the others.

Meanwhile, back on the road, Cade was telling the others to
go on ahead of him.

“You sure?” asked Jamie.

“Positive. I want to hang back and cover up our tracks.”

Seeing the wisdom in that, Wilson said, “Need a hand?”

“I got it.”

“You can’t carry our water forever,” Wilson said.

“No, I can’t. Nor do I intend on doing so.” Then, without
realizing he was regurgitating a line favored by his late mentor, Mike
Desantos, Cade added, “This isn’t my first rodeo, Wilson. You all can go ahead
and catch up with Frick and Frack. I’ll bring up the rear.”

There was a moment of indecision on Wilson’s part. As big
flakes fell silently on the cedars and firs blocking the road, the redhead went
quiet and stood staring at Cade while a fair amount collected on his floppy
boonie hat.

Cade pointed to the break in the forest, in the general
direction the sounds of breaking branches was coming from. “Go,” he said, in a
firm fatherly tone.

Holding their matching AR-style carbines at a low ready,
both Jamie and Lev nodded and without a word entered the forest.

Cade made a shooing motion that finally got Wilson and Taryn
to follow after the others. He waited until they were out of sight then moved
off the road and crouched down among a drooping clutch of ferns, his suppressed
Glock locked and loaded.

***

After remaining still for a handful of minutes with his
collar covering his mouth to keep evidence of his breathing from giving him
away, he concluded they were all alone. He stood and brushed the accumulated
snow from his hat and shoulders. Then he looped around the truck, locked the
doors and stowed the key in his back pocket. Reaching across the hood, he
hinged both wipers up and away from the windshield—an old trick to keep them
from freezing to the windshield he’d learned back in his skiing days. Then,
just to set himself at ease, he searched for a suitable fallen limb with a fair
amount of branches and needles. Knocked the snow from the five-foot item to
lighten it up some and walked a zig-zag pattern backwards from the Chevy to the
spot on the shoulder where the others had entered, sweeping the branch back and
forth the entire way in order to cover their tracks.

Bach’s concerto finished and the next track on the CD Lena
had burned for Dregan the day before her wedding began playing. It was a pop
number from a band she adored. Some young guys calling themselves
Marooned
Five
. He shook his head, thinking the group should’ve dispatched with the
mysterious and just gone ahead and called themselves
The Gilligan’s Island
Five
. Or
Tom Hanks and the Castaways
. Maybe even some funny play on
Lord
of the Flies
. If anything, at least the latter would appeal to the British
teenagers. Then, just as quickly as the inane train of thought entered his
mind, he forgot about the band and his mind drifted to Lena.

Cursing, he ejected the CD, switched hands on the wheel and
rolled the window down with the hand crank. Fucking U.S. Army contracting with
Chevy and buying the cheapest base model available. No power anything. Cut its
balls by dropping an underpowered diesel power plant in it to save a buck and
then turned around and spent the savings on heavy-duty bumpers and a fresh coat
of brown, black, and green paint.

He chucked the CD out the window and then shook his head,
thinking it quite ironic how he—an immigrant and naturalized citizen from the
Ukraine—was now driving a perfect example of how Ronald Reagan duped the old
Soviet Union into spending themselves out of World Super Power status.

Doing his best to forget Lena for the time being, lest he
let his rage get the best of him again, he rolled up the window and let the engine
noises replace the pop band, and hopefully the emotion it had dredged up.

He felt the transmission searching for a lower gear as the
Blazer tackled the next hill head on. Then the engine took on a lower
tone—going from the usual rattle-clatter to a kind of labored growl as the apex
drew near. At the top, he stopped and set the brake. Still a good distance from
the turnoff to Helen and Ray’s ranch, he grabbed the binoculars off the seat
and glassed the property from left to right. Dotting the pasture were dozens of
snow-sprinkled alpaca carcasses, the wisps of hair still clinging to them
jumping and dancing along with each new gust of east wind. Beyond the pasture,
he saw the turnaround in front of the two-story farmhouse and fifty feet south
of there the red and white barn looming over them both.

The windows of the buildings were darkened, which was to be
expected since the power was still out and might never be restored. He noticed
the old couple’s battered pickup wedged tight against the house, and for a
brief second thought about stopping and sharing his good fortune with them.
Maybe tell them where the tracks had led him and pick their brains and see if
they knew what type of people inhabited the valley between Woodruff and
Huntsville before the walking dead did to the United States in weeks, what all
of her enemies had failed to do in the two hundred and thirty-five years prior.

***

While Dregan was in the truck on the hill and looking down
on the farm, Ray was just to the right of the dining room picture window,
holding the curtain back with one hand, and looking off to the northwest
through narrowed eyes.

Cradling the antique shotgun in the crook of his arm, he
craned towards the stairway and said, “Is it him, Helen?”

“I’m not sure,” she answered, her voice echoing down the
gloomy stairwell. “What do you see?”

Squinting against the glare and unable to bring the dark
shape on the distant road into focus, Ray said, “A black blob. Hell, all this
snow makes it so bright that it seems like I’m staring down an oncoming train.”

Upstairs, Helen spun the focus ring on the field glasses,
bringing the vehicle into sharp focus. She said, “It’s him again, alright.”

“I was afraid of that,” Ray called back. “I’m starting to
think he knows we aren’t telling him everything.”

“I sensed it earlier,” conceded Helen. “He seemed on edge.
Like a climber whose last rope is beginning to fray.”

“Well,” Ray said. “If he comes up the drive I’ll walk out
and greet him. If I sense any bad intent I’ll give you the signal and distance
myself from him.”

“If I shoot him dead,” Helen called. “We’re going to find
ourselves dragged up before Pomeroy.”

“Better to be judged by twelve than carried by six,” replied
Ray.

***

Staring intently at the house on the hill, Dregan mulled
over the possibility that the group the old couple gave refuge to the day Lena
and Mikhail were murdered might return on less friendlier terms than before.
And if they did, what would the geriatrics do? The fact that he didn’t truly
know where the couple’s loyalty fell was troubling to say the least. On one
hand, since Helen and Ray had been beneficiaries of Bear River’s charity when
their Alpacas were decimated by the dead, the probability of them calling right
away as promised, Dregan figured, was highly likely. However, if the murderous
gang surprised them before they could get to the radio, they would probably be
forced into giving up the nearby community in order to save their own skin. Sad
thing was, Dregan couldn’t quite blame them.

So with more questions than answers kicking around in his
head, and drawing up battle plans and acting on them before the element of
surprise was lost first and foremost on his
docket
, he took his foot
from the brake and, to save gas, let gravity pull the Blazer forward.
Snickering at the play on words, that he was certain Judge Pomeroy would find
no humor in, he let the rig coast all the way down the hill, past the road
leading up to Helen and Ray’s house and another couple of hundred yards beyond
and then eased his boot down on the gas pedal.

***

Helen propped her carbine in the corner next to the bed. She
walked to the doorway and, projecting her voice down the hall, said, “He’s
gone.” She shuffled back to the bed where she sat down and listened to the
stairs creaking under Ray’s weight as he came up to join her. A minute later he
entered the room, sat on the bed next to her and, shoulders rounded from the
stresses of their new existence, said, “He’s got to grow tired of the constant
searching.”

“Put yourself in his shoes. You’d be searching too.”

“The way that poor man talks about Mikhail, I would have
never
given that boy my blessing.”

“Not even if
she
was smitten?”

Ray said nothing. Just shook his head and sighed.

Staring towards the window where big flakes were swirling
and pattering the glass, Helen said, “We’re going to weather this storm, Ray.
Just like we always do ... together.”

***

A quarter-mile away Dregan was beginning to curse the new
storm moving in when the answer to his dilemma suddenly dawned on him. Shaking
his head side-to-side and angry at himself for not seeing the obvious until
now, he wrangled the transmission into
Drive
and accelerated south in
the northbound lane. Steering one-handed, he snatched up the CB and, speaking
in his native tongue in case anyone was eavesdropping, hailed his oldest son.
There was a long moment of silence during which the sky really opened up,
instantly cutting visibility down to a couple of hundred feet. So Dregan
flicked on the wipers and halved his speed. Finally a voice answered in Russian
and, skipping all the preliminary pleasantries, Dregan bombarded his son,
Gregory, with a flurry of orders, delivered rapid-fire and also in Russian.

With the smile on his face growing wider, and oh so ready to
savor the sweet taste of revenge, Dregan signed off and began filling the
roster in his head with the names of men he knew who—for a price—would help him
move forward with his plan.