Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 12): Abyss Page 6

  Though it was clear to him Bridgett was up to no good, he didn’t know exactly how to go about exposing her for one action without letting on he knew about the other. As a result of this added wrinkle, his idea of confronting her about the thievery and feeding her the much deserved helping of crow was off the table.

  Tran shifted his attention from the phone clutched in his palm to the monitor on his left. In one of the panes Raven and Sasha were running back and forth along the dirt landing strip. Now and again, bounding deer-like, Max would elevate above the tired-looking grass for a split second then disappear from view as he fell back to terra firma. In the distance, above the tree line bordering the motor pool, the dark cloud cover was beginning to break. Bars of sunlight lanced down at a steep angle, hastening the melt and starting a steady trickle of water to spring from both sides of the RV’s aluminum awning. Obviously finished with the diversionary tasks he’d heaped upon them, Glenda and Jamie sat underneath the awning on folding camp chairs, both clutching ceramic bowls, the steam from their contents wafting around their faces.

  Venison stew, thought Tran, a low rumble sounding in his stomach.

  The long-range CB on the shelf came to life with Duncan’s voice. “Tran, my man. We’re just outside of Woodruff where the trail went cold. How’s things at the compound … specifically the outer gate?”

  “Road’s clear, now,” said Tran. “I did see a couple of rotters heading east after you all left.”

  “Good to hear,” Duncan replied. “We’re just rolling up to Casa de Daymon. Gonna cross some T’s and dot some I’s before we come back. Keep your eyes peeled and holler if anything comes up.”

  “Duncan …” Tran said, his voice wavering.

  “Yeah? I’m still here.”

  “I need to talk to Cade … privately.”

  In the F-650, Duncan looked to Cade. Then, with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, Duncan radioed back to Tran. “I already told Cade what I know about your little conspiracy.”

  There was a long moment of silence in the cab. No white noise emanated from the radio. Only the keen of hardy ground-hugging bushes raking the Ford’s slab sides could be heard as the pickup negotiated the rather narrow feeder road.

  Coming upon a lone Z crowding the right shoulder, Cade wheeled the big rig left. Then, with the screech of the abomination’s nails raking the passenger’s side sheet metal, he gestured for the radio.

  Relinquishing the CB, Duncan quipped, “Hands at ten and two.”

  Eyeing the Z warily in the rearview, Cade spoke into the radio. “Cade here. It’s OK, Tran, you can speak freely.”

  And Tran did. He spilled about everything that was on the recording. From Bridgett’s attitude toward him to her disbelief at being allowed to sit in for him, to her using the Ham radio, to how she bolted from the compound without giving a thought to having him lock the door behind her.

  “Where is she now?” Cade asked.

  First Tran spoke of her affable demeanor prior to being allowed to sit in for him. Then he described how that had taken a one-eighty once he returned. He left out the insults and how he had yearned to embarrass her in front of the others. However, he didn’t hold back when describing how she had left the compound in a tizzy and stalked across the clearing toward the RV. He told Cade how she paused and spoke with Glenda and Jamie just prior to throwing the unidentifiable item into the fire pit and walking away.

  “Where is the heifer now?” asked Duncan, unexpectedly finding himself on the receiving end of one of Taryn’s oh no you didn’t glares.

  “Seeing as how the portion of my pound cake she scarfed was little more than an appetizer,” said Tran, “I assumed she was just going topside to help herself to a bowl or two of Glenda’s stew.”

  Assumed, thought Cade. Like I assumed you’d keep the cards closer to your chest. “Where are the others?” he asked in a measured tone.

  In the compound, Tran glanced at the monitor. “The girls are throwing the ball for Max in the clearing. Glenda and Jamie are taking an early lunch. I don’t see Bridgett, now. Maybe she took her stew with her to the latrine.”

  Still holding the radio near his mouth, Cade regarded Duncan. There was no twinkle in the Delta operator’s eyes. His jaw had taken on the famous granite set. Steering one-handed, he held the pose for a couple of seconds. “Lev and Seth,” he finally said. “Where are they now?”

  “They’re walking the perimeter,” answered Tran.

  Cade stopped the truck a dozen yards from where the road spilled out into what looked to him to be a motor court. To the left was a regulation-sized basketball court fashioned from poured cement and marked with the appropriate lines. To his amazement, opposing ten-foot backboards sprouted on the baseline at each end. Still gawking at the spread he would have never guessed was here based on the gate and road leading in to it, he thumbed the Talk key and said, “I have a hunch Bridgett isn’t what she says she is. Call Jamie and tell her what you told me. Have her fill in Glenda, too. I want Jamie to shadow the girls. Stick to them like glue—”

  Tran interrupted. “Lev and Seth?”

  “Talk to Lev. Tell him everything. Have him and Seth backtrack to 39. Tell them to approach Bridgett as if she’s armed and dangerous. Have them tell her she has to answer to the group for her suspected involvement in the disappearing food problem.”

  “What do they do with her if she cooperates?”

  “Have them take her to dry storage. No zip ties, though. Keep her thinking she’s in trouble only for pilfering food. Do not mention the video.”

  “And if she runs or happens to resist?” asked Tran.

  “No need to bring that up with Lev,” said Cade. “He’ll know what to do. Hit us with a SITREP as soon as you know anything.”

  “Copy that,” said Tran.

  There was a click and the CB in Cade’s hand went silent.

  Seeing the stone and timber mansion bracketed by a pair of trees standing sentinel at the terminus of the gently curving drive, Duncan said to Cade, “You think she’s armed?”

  Wilson said, “The weapons are all locked up. I made sure of that before we left.”

  Duncan regarded Cade. “Unless she takes one off of one of our people, she’s only got her hands.”

  Cade brought the F-650 to a slow rolling stop underneath a portico at the top arc of a circular parking pad made of pavers laid down in a herringbone pattern. The cover made of stone, iron, and roughly hewn timbers extended out from the home a good thirty feet and sheltered the stairs and massive wood front doors from the elements.

  Cade threw the transmission into Park and said, “What’s to keep her from finding an axe, sharp stick, or rock to use as a weapon?”

  “Or her fists,” said Wilson. “She’s big-boned. And muscled under the flab, too. I’ve seen her cutting wood. Wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of one of those swings.”

  “If she tries to rabbit, Lev and Seth will know how to handle her,” Cade said bitterly. He killed the engine and in his side vision picked up the movement of one of the ten-foot-tall doors swinging inward.

  “The man of the house,” said Duncan, gesturing toward Daymon, who was already descending the stairs, smiling and brandishing an M4.

  Chapter 10

  “Bridgett … really? How in the hell did you come up with that gem of a name, Iris? You couldn’t have pulled a Heather or a Mysti or even a hippy dippy name like Crystal out of your fat ass? You’re a Doer now, girl. You’ve gotta think quickly on your feet. Much quicker than that or you’re going to find yourself demoted to Watcher and wasting away in barns and attics again. Is that what you want?”

  Iris didn’t answer her own question, because that’s what crazy people did. And that’s what she was going to be if she had to go back up into another spider-web-filled steeple and share space with the bats in the belfry. In fact, she’d rather be dead than serve one more watching session in a barn reeking of cow shit and moldy hay. She hauled her frame over the newer-looking fence
she’d just come across. The taut length of wire chafed her inner thigh as she rolled over the top. There was a tearing sound followed by a puff of white feathers as equal parts gravity and her own inherent clumsiness sent her crashing to her back on the soft ground. With goose feathers raining down on her chest and face and the ground all around her, Iris rolled over onto her ample stomach and pushed up to her knees. Using the fence for support, she rose and looked down at her chest. Fine little feathers flocked every square inch of the torn vest where the leaves had wet it. Brushing the vest front with both hands, she took one step forward in the direction of the watery sun and felt the ground give way and, as if she’d stepped from a curb unexpectedly, her boot punched through what looked to be a purposefully assembled collection of leaves and twigs. A fraction of a second later, with her heart lurching in her chest and the determined expression morphing into a clown mask of confusion, she felt a pain like no other. It was as if her leg from the knee down was receiving acupuncture treatment from a sadist wielding a dozen white-hot fireplace pokers. Though blindsided by the initial breath-robbing wave of pain, she still had the wherewithal to know to bury her face in her vest collar before releasing the howl trapped in her chest.

  Biting bloody furrows into her lower lip, Iris plunged her fingers into the soft topsoil, tensed her left leg, and drew up on her right with all the strength she could muster. Which was more than enough to start behind her eyelids a brief but furious display of fireworks that preceded her plunge into the deep, dark chasm of unconsciousness.

  Bear River, Wyoming

  As the mud- and gore-stippled pickups Alexander Dregan had been tracking crested a rise and entered a straight stretch of Wyoming State Highway 89 half a mile south of the Bear River community, he put down the binoculars and scooped up the Dragunov sniper rifle. He hacked once, spit the bloody wad of phlegm over the edge, then snugged the scoped weapon to his shoulder. Resting its lengthy barrel on the lip of the sandbagged six-by-six plywood guard tower, he peered through the high-powered optics and parked the crosshairs on the lead truck.

  The driver, a Caucasian man with sandy hair and wearing a panicked expression, struggled mightily with the wheel as the truck wallowed and shimmied the entire length of the steep, water-slickened downgrade. Sitting in the passenger seat with a black carbine in hand was a much younger man—Hispanic, guessed Dregan, judging by the brown eyes, light brown skin, and jet black hair. Pressed to the man’s cherubic face was a pair of binoculars that appeared to be trained on the school bus blocking the entrance directly below Dregan’s perch. How the man could keep the field glasses trained on anything the way the truck was bouncing on its tired suspension baffled Dregan. That he was interested in the walled community told the volunteer sheriff the small convoy had no intention of holding course and continuing across the nearby Utah state line.

  Between the driver and binocular-wielding passenger stood a kindergarten-aged girl. Blonde pigtails snaked from under a pink stocking hat. Face scrunched into a mask of terror, the kid had one small hand splayed out on the truck’s dash and was clutching the fabric of the passenger’s winter parka with the other.

  In the bed of the copper-colored Dodge, a trio of bodies lay prone among a hodgepodge of camping gear. The three waifish forms lolled with the truck’s every move. The pale, waxen skin of their slack faces, clenched hands, and unshod feet stood out starkly against the jumble of colorful nylon sacks likely containing tents and rolled-up sleeping bags.

  The second pickup was a silver Chevy still wearing a paper dealer plate in the front license frame. The middle-aged driver and his front seat passenger were both Caucasian, the latter a pimply-faced teen. The three sharing the rear bench seat were kids: boy, girl, boy. The kids all looked under ten and bore expressions identical to the little girl’s in the lead truck. The Chevy’s bed was also crammed with gear and bodies. However, unlike the Dodge, these three bodies—all women who looked to be in their thirties—were alive and sitting upright. Eyes narrowed against the cold slipstream screaming around their heads, they all stared intently, fixated on what Dregan had already concluded was their ultimate destination.

  Now on high alert, Dregan continued watching through the scope and barked orders into a two-way radio, instructing the men at the gate and adjacent guard tower to fire at the first sight of a weapon being brought to bear. He drew his eye away from the scope and relaxed his grip on the weapon. He regarded the young man to his right and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could form a word another wet cough wracked his body. Bloody bubbles formed on his lips. He swiped at the froth with his sleeve and drew in a deep breath.

  “Are you OK?” the fair-haired twenty-something asked.

  Dregan nodded. Then, words competing with a hollow rattle, he said, “Watch for weapons. And make sure the ones in the back of the first truck are not infected. If they are, enact proper protocol.”

  Still training his black carbine on the approaching vehicles, the young man simply nodded.

  Dregan set the Dragunov aside, grabbed his trusty AK-47, and cast his gaze to the state highway where the trucks showed no signs of slowing. Though he had picked the pair of trucks up a couple of miles out, their headlights a dead giveaway, their ultimate destination wasn’t clear until the overloaded Dodge tore into the right turn at a high rate of speed, sending the bodies in back rolling hard to the left and a plume of blue-black smoke lifting off the right-side tires. The second truck didn’t slow either. If anything, it seemed to accelerate, the passengers clinging to the bed rails in back nearly paying dearly for the abrupt maneuver.

  Dregan said, “I’m going to the gate,” then descended through the cutout in the floor and trundled noisily down the telescoping aluminum ladder.

  A dozen miles north of Bear River, Cade was shouldering open the F-650’s massive door. His boots hit the pavers and he couldn’t resist walking out from underneath the portico to run his eyes over the mini mansion. It was multi-storied and featured a multi-pitched roof. He marveled at the sturdy bi-fold storm shutters. Unlike the for-looks-only adornments on most McMansions he’d come across, these solid metal items were attached to hinges beside every window on every level and appeared to be fully functional. And taking cues from the homes in mountain communities such as Aspen or Jackson Hole, the two-story affair here in rural Utah was all hewn lumber, iron fittings, and quarried stone. The materials and colors chosen by the former owner blended seamlessly with the scenery backstopping the place. Natural camouflage, Cade thought approvingly as he retraced his steps to the Ford.

  Smile creasing his face, Daymon lowered his rifle, padded to the bottom of the stairs, and motioned for Duncan, Taryn, and Wilson to exit the vehicle.

  “Had to get another watchrotter, didn’t you?” Duncan said as he shut his door and joined Taryn and Wilson near the steps.

  Daymon’s smile faded. “Did you recognize her?” Seeing no recognition on Duncan’s part, he met Taryn’s gaze.

  Eyes going wide, Taryn nodded and said, “Yeah. She is familiar to me now that you mention it. She was one of the twins from the Bear Lake compound, right? One of the ones that had been walking the ramparts by the gate?”

  “Yep. I found her wandering Woodruff last night.” He looked to Duncan. “I still don’t think leaving them in the stocks was the right decision. This kind of proves it. Leads to more questions probably never to be answered.”

  “I agree with Daymon,” said Cade. He was rounding the F-650 and had heard the entire exchange. “If the Zs had gotten to her while she was still confined to the stocks, your pet would be a walking skeleton.”

  “Watchrotter,” said Daymon, leveling his gaze at Cade. “She’s not my pet. I may be a sick puppy … but I’m not that kind of sick.”

  Cade nodded agreeably. “But you knew what I meant.”

  Wilson put his hand on the pistol on his belt. Fingers caressing the smooth leather holster, he said, “For one, how’d she become infected? Second, who freed her from the stocks before she
became infected?”

  “Wasn’t Mom … or Adrian, whatever you want to call your rotter’s former boss. She was in no kind of traveling shape when I locked her in her own torture device.” Duncan shouldered his Saiga shotgun. “Her leg was broken badly and she was bleeding out. Just like she let Oliver bleed out. Only slower. No way she deserved the quick way out.”

  “I concur,” said Cade, remembering how he had sent Pug out of this world. “But you still should have stuck around for proof of death.”

  “Undeath,” Taryn corrected. “Even more fitting.”

  “If wishes were fishes,” said Duncan. Changing the subject, he looked to Daymon. “Where’s your better half?”

  “She heard you all were at the gate and decided to raid the pantry of the good stuff. Come on inside.” Seeing the look of apprehension settle on Cade’s face, he added, “It’ll be OK. The watchrotter is not my only line of defense. The grounds are seeded with motion sensors. Our six is fairly well-covered by trees. As are our flanks.”

  Cade craned and gestured at the dormers sprouting from the home’s steel roof. “What about an attic?”

  Daymon shouldered his rifle and stepped aside to let the others enter through the open door. “It does indeed have an attic,” he answered, brow knitting. “There’s also a panic room off the master bedroom. Neither of which I want to see the inside of. I’d put a bullet in my head before reliving that day in Hanna.”

  Knowing precisely where the man was coming from, Cade said nothing and mounted the stairs.

  Chapter 11

  Bear River

  The one thing Dregan disliked most about visiting the guard towers to check on his men was climbing back down the rickety ladders. The ascent wasn’t so bad because he could take his time. Coming down, however, with his near three-hundred-pound cancer-addled frame causing tremendous strain on his leg and arm muscles, always got his wind up. Which was no good considering his lung capacity was strangled by the fast-growing tumors that were hurtling him to an early death at an ever-increasing pace.