District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (14 page)

Forward Operating Base Bastion

Mack, Colorado

As soon as Cade heard the words, “
Your ride is hot. She’s
number four down the flight line
” roll off the crew chief’s tongue, he had
shouldered his ruck and weapon and hustled past the Rangers and base personnel assembled
in the receiving line, the so-called
jock bag
banging against his hip. In
passing he had caught Beeson’s eye and acknowledged the slight nod from the
commander with one of his own. With a slight limp evident in his gait, Cade hustled
past a pair of Little Bird helicopters and an MH-60 Black Hawk, all undergoing
inspection by their respective aircrew.

Once he reached the outer edge of the Ghost Hawk’s rotor
wash, he put a hand atop his tactical bump helmet and, ignoring the dangling
straps and buckles whipping against his throat, ducked and trudged headlong
into the black craft’s buffeting down-blast. Barely five feet from his waiting ride
and squinting hard against the fine grit being thrown about by its wildly
spinning rotor blades, Cade saw the co-pilot flashing him a thumbs-up and a
wide grin. The hulking form behind the welcoming gesture was the same African-American
aviator who had co-piloted the craft during the Los Angeles mission some three
and a half weeks prior. Before he’d had a chance to return the man’s greeting, the
port side door slid open and a second man he recognized from the same mission
leaped to the tarmac. In the next beat Cade was being relieved of his rifle and
gym bag by the SOAR crew chief and a glove-clad hand of one of the customers
inside the helo gripped his and hauled him inside.

As Cade strapped into a port-side seat aft of the crew
chief/door gunner whose nametape read
Skipper
, a sleek black flight
helmet was thrust into his lap by his old friend Captain Javier “Lowrider”
Lopez.

“Plug it in,” mouthed the stocky, Hispanic Delta Force
shooter, pointing to his own helmet and then a nearby jack as if that might
somehow expedite Cade’s compliance.

Cade reached over his shoulder and plugged in. As he swung
back to face Lopez, he took inventory of the craft’s occupants. Up front in the
right-hand seat, visor sparkling with sun glint, was Ari Silver, an exceptional
SOAR aviator and obviously the commander of Jedi One-One — assuming that was
the name the higher-ups had assigned the ship for this particular mission.

Already strapped in across the aisle from Cade was President
Valerie Clay’s former head of security, Adam Cross. With his blond locks, blue
eyes, and clean-shaven face, he looked more Malibu surfer boy than the
tough-as-nails former Navy SEAL that he was. Cade’s nod was greeted by a smile
that exposed a picket of unnaturally white teeth.

Adjusting his well-worn blue ball cap,
McP’s Irish Pub
emblazoned on it in gold stitching, Cross said, “Captain Grayson, Delta
operator emeritus. How’s it hanging, brother?”

Cade flashed a thumbs-up. “Still inhabiting the correct side
of the dirt—”

“And possessing a heartbeat and respiration,” finished Ari,
his voice able to be heard in everyone’s headsets via the shipwide comms.

Cade cracked a smile. “Jedi driver Ari Silver,” he said.
“Thought that was you up there punching buttons and pulling levers.”

“Welcome aboard, Wyatt,” said the heavily muscled
African-American chief warrant officer in the left-seat, a smile blooming below
the lowered visor.

“Pleasure’s all mine, Haynes,” Cade answered. “Do I have a
couple of minutes to adjust my slip before you and Ari resume your never-ending
attempt at pinning a puker patch on me?”

“Adjust away,” Ari said, suppressing a laugh.

“Wheels up in five,” Haynes warned, his voice deep and
unmistakable even through the onboard comms.

Wasting no time, and under the watchful eye of Lopez and
Cross, Cade unzipped the gym bag and spilled its contents on the floor. He
arranged the items in a row by his feet. Next, he drew his Gerber combat dagger
and carefully sliced through the laces on both of his tan desert boots. He
sheathed the Gerber then slipped the worn items off his feet and nudged them
out of sight under his seat. He scooped up the black plastic-and-Velcro stirrup-looking
contraptions Daymon had liberated from “
the sporting goods room”
at the
place he hoped to call home one day. Sensing all eyes on him, Cade slipped a
heel into each brace and tugged and adjusted the nylon rear straps until the
built-in pivot points were positioned comfortably over each protruding ankle
bone while still leaving him an acceptable range of motion front to back. The
topmost strap was wider than the rear and wrapped around his lower leg below
the calf. He cinched both ankle braces down tight and tested them for fit.

Good to go
.

Sensing the turbines spooling up, Cade glanced toward the
cockpit and noticed Ari inputting waypoints on the wide touchscreen display
stretching the cockpit between him and Haynes. Swinging his gaze around he saw
Lopez and Cross eyeballing him. A grin was parked on Lopez’s face, while Cross
was nodding, a knowing look clearly evident on his.

Unable to curb his curiosity, Lopez asked, “What the eff are
those and where did you get them?”

“Says
Active Ankles
right here on the strap,” Cade
answered glibly. “A friend gave them to me earlier today.”

Not wanting Ari to hear him, Lopez closed a fist around his
boom microphone and mouthed, “Still wobbly from the Draper crash?”

Cade nodded. Grabbed up the pair of well-worn size 9 Danner
boots he’d pulled from the bag and began working the laces loose. “Same friend
got me these, too,” he said, heading off the next line of questioning.

Satisfied, Lopez sank into his seat and tightened his safety
harness.

“Two mikes,” Haynes said.

“I did both ankles
real bad
playing hoops at Venice
Beach,” Cross intoned. “They’ve never really fully healed. No idea how I made
it through BUDs on them.”

Grinning, Lopez said, “Because you’re shit hot and high
speed, Cross.”

Smiling inwardly, Cade tucked his black pants legs into the
dark brown boots, cinched the laces and bloused the cuffs. After wiggling his
toes and rolling each ankle in a tight little clockwise circle, he silently
deemed himself mission capable.

“One mike,” called Haynes.

Now occupying the seat beside the stowed minigun to Cade’s
left, the SOAR crew chief named Skipper—obviously having let his personal
grooming go since the L.A. mission—stroked his graying billy-goat beard with
one gloved hand. He seemed completely at ease, letting his helmeted head loll
against the bulkhead as the craft launched off the tarmac behind a growing
turbine growl and accompanied by the unusual harmonic vibration that supplanted
a normal helo’s hurricane-like rotor noise.

Cade heard Ari speaking with the tower as the Ghost Hawk
continued to climb and spin to port. Outside his window, FOB Bastion’s flight line
slowly rotated from sight and he was afforded a bird’s eye view of Mack Mesa
Municipal’s old parking lot and transient receiving area. The lot was full of
military vehicles wearing both desert tan and the much darker woodland
camouflage schemes. Rising up atop the building’s officer’s quarters was a
two-story plywood and plate-glass addition bristling with half a dozen antennas.
On the far corner of the cobbled-together control tower, a bright orange wind
sock hung listless in the still, high-desert air.

Beyond the sprawling parking lot ringed by prefab trailers
and a liberal amount of fencing and what looked like ten-foot-wide by ten-deep
trenches, soldiers in hazmat suits were going about the grim task of removing
the previous night’s accumulation of twice-dead corpses.

“She’s always under siege,” Cross offered, peering out his starboard
window. “Has been since the day the first Chinooks landed.”

Shifting his attention to Lopez and Cross, and noticing
their newish-looking uniforms, Cade quipped, “You two clean up nicely.”

Lopez rested his chin on the butt of his rifle. “Should have
seen us an hour ago.”

Deadpan, Cross added, “Yep. It’s amazing what a couple of
passes over the old ball sack with a warm washcloth will do for a fella.”

Cade felt the helo nose down and pick up speed. Compared to
the bus-like ride of the Stealth Chinook, the Ghost Hawk was a Ferrari—super
nimble and peppy. Maybe the weeks spent on the ground had skewed his perception
of speed—especially when it had come to the bigger helicopter’s performance. At
any rate, it appeared they would arrive at Colorado Springs sooner as a direct
result of switching birds. Shifting his gaze from the tilting horizon over
Cross’s shoulder, he locked eyes with Lopez and asked, “What have you been up
to?”

“Me and Cross were in your neck of the woods,” Lopez said.
“Poking around the Wasatch Front.”

Cade perked up. “Did you recon Salt Lake?”

Lopez nodded. “Started out in Wendover, Nevada. It straddles
the border with Utah. Buried some listening devices there on Interstate 80. The
Zs can’t help but follow it straight across the salt flats to Salt Lake, which
is teeming with them.”

“Did you two come across PLA scout soldiers in Nevada?”

Cross nodded. “We were expecting contact.”

“Praying for it,” added Lopez, eyes narrowing.

“President Clay sent out a pre-recorded pep talk. Everyone
at Bastion watched it. Your name came up, Wyatt. Something about finding
foreign soldiers on our soil … as far east as Ogden.”

“Huntsville,” Cade said. He glanced at Skipper, who didn’t
seem interested in the conversation. If he was, it didn’t show. The crew
chief’s eyes were hidden behind a smoked visor, and his helmeted head, facing
the port-side hip window, was constantly panning in small little increments,
presumably between the ground and horizon. “I came across two PLA special
operations scouts.”

Cross asked, “Were they riding dirt bikes?”

Cade nodded. He looked at Lopez, then, settling his gaze
back on Cross, said, “They were dismounts. Already dead and turned. They were
wearing—”

Suddenly the Ghost Hawk slowed considerably and, as if it
wasn’t already skimming the weeds, halved the distance to the ground and began
a tight counterclockwise orbit.

“Bastion, Jedi One-One. We’ve got a large group of Zs moving
south on State Route 65,” Ari said, his voice carrying over the shipwide comms.

After Bastion came back with a terse “Copy that,” Haynes relayed
the estimated size of the horde followed by their current GPS coordinates,
direction of travel, and estimated speed.

Lopez fixed his gaze on Cade. “Per Beeson’s orders, more
than a thousand roamers on the open range warrants a Screamer drop.”

“Working one up,” Ari answered back.

Regarding Cross with a look of confusion, Cade mouthed, “Screamer?”

After stabbing two splayed fingers at his own eyes, Cross pointed
to Skipper and mouthed, “Watch this.”

For reasons unknown—a gut feeling, perhaps—Daymon put one
toe on the lowest stair leading up to the faded white Catholic church then did
an about-face, saying, “Let’s clear the caretaker’s house first.”

Without a word of protest, the others followed him up the
sidewalk to the next stack of cement stairs.

As if privy to some kind of insider information, Max had
already continued on past the church steps and was nose deep into the bushes at
the base of the stairs leading up to the Old-Colonial-style house rising up
from an elevated parcel of land barely a hundred feet east of the church.

Stopping beside Max, Daymon looked up at the house, first
focusing his attention on the windowed gables up high, then walking his gaze
over the ground-level windows which were all completely shrouded by dark-colored
drapes.

“Front door or back?” Lev asked, drawing his semiautomatic.

Eyeing the overgrown front porch and stairs, Oliver said, “I
just spent dang near three months bushwhacking the Pacific Crest Trail. I vote
we try the back door first.”

“I miss this kind of work,” Daymon replied, pulling Kindness
from its sheath and telling the others to stand back.

More than three months removed from human intervention and
growing crazily over the slender handrail, the cat-pee-smelling bushes looked
to be a formidable opponent to reaching the front door. However, after a few
minutes of hard work, Daymon had cut a three-foot-wide path up the first rise
of stairs and was bulling through the grabbing vines overtaking the whitewashed
front porch.

“Not quite the same as cutting a firebreak,” he called down
from the porch landing. “But it sure brought back some memories.” He moved his
blade slowly left to right, cutting the air in front of the front door. Brought
it close to his face and inspected the cobwebs and bug husks clinging to it. A
big fat spider—Brown Recluse he guessed—darted along the blade’s spine and
dropped off to the weathered floorboards, scurrying between his boots before he
could stomp it flat.

“Spider,” Taryn squawked, flapping her tatted arms and doing
a little dance on the stairs.

“Dead spider,” Jamie declared, bringing her combat boot down
hard and leaving behind a messy arachnid pancake.

Calling up from where he was standing on the first run of debris-strewn
stairs, Wilson said, “All those webs didn’t just accumulate over two days’ time.
Brings back bad memories of the inside of Ray and Helen’s old barn.”

Daymon wiped the webs off on his pants and sheathed the
blade. “And what does it tell us, boys and girls?”

Approaching the door, Lev said, “It tells
me
that nobody’s
come or gone through this particular entry for quite some time.”

Wilson said, “And that means the place probably isn’t booby-trapped.”

“Bang on it anyway,” Taryn said, eyes narrowing. “Real hard.
And be careful when you open it—”

“I won’t make the same mistake you did,” Daymon interrupted.
“What’s that for you now, Taryn? Two botched entries this week?”

Taryn smirked and thrust her left arm in front of him, fist
closed. Then, under the watchful gaze of all present, she moved her right fist
in a slow clockwise circle next to the left. And moving even slower than her
hand was working the imaginary crank, her middle finger extended until it was
standing at attention and delivering Daymon a nonverbal, albeit very clear
message.

Daymon stuck his tongue out at Taryn then turned to join Lev
at the door.

Like the church, the paint on the squat two-story house was
weathered and scaling off, even on the walls semi-protected from the elements
by the porch roof. The door was windowless and appeared to have been hewn from
a single slab of oak. A lattice made of brass covered a small peek-a-boo door
inset at eye level. A sheen of dust pocked by raindrop strikes covered the
horizontal porch rails and door.

Daymon paused for a beat, raised his hand, and looked to Lev
for approval.

As if saying,
Better you than me,
Lev stepped back
and nodded.

So, doing Taryn’s bidding, Daymon delivered three sharp,
rapid-fire blows dead center on the door with his closed fist.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

He listened hard. Heard nothing but shallow breathing behind
him.

“Again,” Taryn insisted.

“Says the girl who just flipped off the entry person,”
Daymon said, repeating the process.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Nothing.

Growling low, hairs on his back raised, Max sidled up onto
the porch.

“Stay frosty,” Daymon warned, just before rearing back and
delivering a bone-jarring front kick to the spot on the door just inches below
the tarnished brass knob.

Max yelped and there was a sharp crack of wood as the jamb
failed and the door rocketed inward on its hinges. A half-beat later there was
a dull thud and puff of fine white powder as the knob punched a hole into the
lathe and plaster foyer wall.

***

Forty feet from where the breaking and entering was about to
begin, the door leading to the back stoop was clicking shut.

Breathing hard, Iris crouched down on the top step and
fumbled around the door jamb, feeling for the filament-like fishing line Ratchet
had left dangling there. Hearing the rapid-fire knocking coming from inside the
house, she wrapped the leader up in her hand, then, cautiously, so as to not disturb
Ratchet’s surprise, held the line loosely and turned a one-eighty on the short
stack of stairs until she was facing the door.

The second volley of knocks came just as she was wrapping
the leader line around the eyehook screwed knee-high into the hinge-side doorjamb.

Finished with her task, she leaped off the steps and
sprinted straight to the rickety picket fence, leaving a trail of trampled grass
in her wake. After making sure none of the Purged were lying in wait for her,
she scrambled over the fence and went to ground beside a natural barrier of brambles
that extended north to a low bluff a dozen yards beyond the picket fence.

Just as Iris was beginning to camouflage her large frame
with the pre-positioned pile of soggy, month’s old grass clippings, the looters
breached the front door. Though muffled by interior walls and separated by a
long hallway and at least thirty feet of additional open ground, the sound of
cracking wood was unmistakable in the infinite quiet of the new world.

***

As a result of Newton’s Third Law, Daymon had involuntarily backpedaled
three feet from the threshold even before the door had completed half of its
inward swing. By the time the brass knob was making its perfect round hole in
the interior wall, he had regained his balance and was conducting a quick visual
inventory of the foyer and rooms beyond. Seeing there were no rotters with
carved-out voice boxes waiting to pounce, he stepped over the threshold,
halting the door on its return swing with his left forearm. Pistol drawn, he peeled
off to his right, muzzle moving in unison with his gaze, and quickly called
back, telling the others the living room was clear.

Berettas drawn, Lev and Jamie entered the house on Daymon’s
heels. Lev swung to the left to clear the dining room, while Jamie continued
straight down the narrow hall dividing the house in two.

“Left is clear,” Lev called as he threw open the drapes,
fully illuminating the butler’s pantry and kitchen beyond it.

“Found the stairs,” Jamie called from the rear of the house.
“And I smell cigarette smoke.” She cast a quick glance out the window over the
sink. “Nobody out back.” She tested the knob. “Back door’s locked, too.”

After waving Oliver, Taryn, and Wilson inside, Daymon stared
Max in the eye, telling him to sit.

Putting a finger vertical to his lips, Daymon closed the
door softly behind them, forcing it shut despite the damaged jamb. “Follow,” he
said over his shoulder and struck out down the hall to reunite with Jamie and
Lev.

After a twenty-foot-run down the middle of the house, the
hall spilled him into the kitchen. It was done in a classic farmhouse style,
appointed with white cupboards, all yawning open and fully cleaned out. The
fridge was pushed up against an inner wall. Its doors were closed. Still, the
seal had failed and a stinking sludge had accumulated around its base. No
telling what was inside the thing, Daymon thought, throwing a shiver.

Coming to a large butcher-block-topped island, Daymon halted
and spun a circle. For a house this size, the kitchen was massive, encompassing
nearly a quarter of the downstairs footprint.

Having just emerged from the adjoining butler’s pantry, Lev padded
to the door leading to the backyard and peered out the window.

Daymon swung his gaze right and spied Jamie standing at the
base of a short rise of stairs, gun drawn and holding a finger to her lips.

Getting the hint, Wilson crossed the kitchen diagonally and
joined Lev by the back door.

Oliver and Taryn stood rooted in the kitchen doorway, the
former, back turned and peering down the hall at the compromised front door.

“Hear anything?” Daymon whispered.

Jamie shook her head. Leveling her pistol, she scaled the
half-dozen steps and paused on the landing where the entire run made a ninety-degree
turn to the right.

Daymon whistled softly to get Jamie’s attention. “Wait for
me,” he whispered. Looking back at the others, he motioned Taryn over.

“You want me to go upstairs, too?” Taryn whispered.

Daymon nodded and stepped aside to let her pass. “Wilson,
you watch the back door,” he said, still whispering. “Oliver, anyone comes a
knockin’, dead or alive, shoot first and ask questions later.”

Oliver and Wilson both nodded in agreement.

Daymon called Lev over with a nod and started off to his
right toward the stairwell. Before scaling the stairs, just to be safe, he went
to the door underneath the stairs and tried the handle, finding it unlocked.
Figuring it for a small powder room, he yanked the door open and found only a
threadbare coat on a hanger and a pair of galoshes arranged side-by-side on the
floor. Propped in the back corner was an oversized golf umbrella and a golf
club which, based on its short shaft and mostly open face, he figured was
probably a 9 iron.

Feeling sheepish, Daymon closed the closet door and mounted
the stairs.

With Jamie in the lead and Lev bringing up the rear, the
four Eden survivors made their way to the second floor, stepping only on the
sides of each tread to keep the squeaking of loose boards to a minimum.

At the second landing where the stairs twisted to the right
again, Jamie halted to point out pea-sized drops of blood. She swiped at one
with her toe and visibly stiffened at the sight of the crimson arc left behind.
“Still wet,” she mouthed to Daymon before mounting the final run of stairs.

Mirroring the main floor, a long hall split the upstairs in
half. Two doorways on each side led to bedrooms, presumably. The smell of smoke
here was much stronger than it had been in the kitchen.

Communicating with hand gestures and nods, the group moved
on down the hall, Taryn and Daymon taking the two doors on the left, while Lev
and Jamie approached the doors on the right.

Taryn poked her head into the nearest room and found only a
dust-covered wood floor and four bare walls. The door on the small closet to
her left hung open, the high shelf and hanger bar both bare. Sunlight splashed
the walls, and just outside the east-facing window was a mature oak tree, its
bare branches nearly touching the house.

The second door Daymon opened was to a bathroom instead of a
coat closet. After a cursory glance revealed a clawfoot tub, pedestal sink and
toilet, the latter bone dry and sporting a rust-orange waterline, he turned and
looked down the hall to where the others had assembled.

Jamie shook her head, causing her carbine to swing on its
sling. “Three empty rooms,” she announced, acting as spokesperson for the
others.

Nodding agreeably, Lev said, “We crapped out. Nothing of use
here. Time to move on.”

“The blood, though,” Jamie said, pointing at the floor. “It
ends right here.”

“And the smoke,” Taryn said, her nose crinkling. “Someone
was here and we spooked them.”

“I agree,” Daymon said, his gaze suddenly walking up the
wall and settling on the ceiling above their heads where he saw cut marks. They
were maybe an eighth of an inch thick and ran two feet across on the ends and
four on the sides paralleling the walls. A rubber T-shaped handle was nestled
into a four-inch-wide cutout on the end nearest the stairs. He pointed to the
find, then put a finger to his lips. “Let’s go,” he said, voice booming.
“Nothing here.” He turned and clomped on down the hall alone and then made a
lot more noise going down the stairs by himself.

In the kitchen, Daymon quietly told Wilson about their find
and told him to keep doing what he was doing.

Moving to the front of the house, Daymon found Oliver
gripping his carbine tight and standing tall with his back to the bashed-in door.
On the shorter man’s face was a look the former BLM firefighter knew all too
well. Oliver Gladson was scared shitless and it showed.

“What is it?”

Oliver drew in a deep breath. “Max was growling on the
porch.”

“And?”

“I looked out the window.”

“And?”

“That pair of rotters down by the intersection—”

“Yes,” Daymon interrupted. “What about them?”

“They’re at the bottom of the stairs now,” Oliver stammered.

“Don’t worry. It’ll be the second coming of you know who
before they reach the porch.
If
they do reach the porch. Relax.”

“What if they
do
make it to the porch before we’re
done in here?”

“Simple, Oliver. If Max can’t handle them, you’ll have to
step in.” Daymon opened the door. “You got our six, Max?”