Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle (10 page)

CHAPTER 14

Rip grabbed several magazines as he walked back out of Buster’s, slinging his rifle over his shoulder as he did. He tried to lay out his plan in his mind, but it wasn’t much. Grab some guns, grab some help, kill some zombies, grab fuel, check on Jake, and get the fuck out of Dodge before being turned into a human Happy Meal.

Piece of cake.

The three men that had volunteered to go with him stood waiting outside. Like Rip, they went by their nicknames more than their given names. The first man was Witch, an Army Special Forces medic. Although in his mid-forties, he had seen more action than his looks let on. He was a suave, handsome guy who still managed to keep a clean-shaven face in spite of a not-so-readily available razor. Ever the vain one, his good looks were not to be mistaken for weakness; he would snap a man’s neck just as easily as he combed his hair. He had been the man tending to Clay and his injuries, which looked more severe than they actually were. Clay had been taken into Colonel Patterson’s office to lie down on the same cot that Rip had used a few days prior. He was sore and injured, but not dead.

The second man was a former Coast Guard rescue swimmer—nicknamed Seabass—who had been stationed on Staten Island. He got the hell out of New York by Coast Guard helicopter when the shit hit the fan. Also a civilian paramedic, Seabass was an invaluable encyclopedia of medical knowledge. His weapon of choice was a solid, one-piece tomahawk that he had ordered a month before the world went to shit. Seabass was an avid outdoorsman and bought the tomahawk for camping, but it made an excellent zombie-killing tool.

The third man was Hacker, so named by his friends in the Knights. The nickname was given to him after it was found out that he had a working Xbox 360 for nearly two years after the end of the world. The machine succumbed to the dreaded “red ring of death” and was summarily used by Hacker for target practice. He was only 26 years old but just as skilled with a real rifle as he was with a video game one. Hacker was an odd combination of soldier and geek. He wore an old, faded Brooklyn Dodgers hat that looked like it hadn’t been washed since the team moved to Los Angeles.

Rip joined his three squad mates outside Buster’s. Each man had his respective rifle slung against his chest with magazines loaded and ready to go. The ragtag squad turned and acknowledged Colonel Patterson with a collective salute. Patterson saluted back, and Rip was shortly taken aback that the age-old military tradition was still used.

Colonel Patterson addressed Rip. “Some of the best men that I have left at my disposal. You watch your ass out there, sergeant; I expect all of you to be back before morning. Moving in the dark isn’t exactly the best idea, but I know that this has to be done immediately. There are lives at stake.”

Rip reached out his good hand and shook Patterson’s. “Yes, sir. We will do our best.”

“Clay said the fuel cans are about four or five miles down the road, just off the beaten path under a billboard for Mud Puppies strip club. They’re in red Jerry cans, so they should be easy to spot. From what I understand, your friend’s place isn’t too far from there. You should grab the cans if you’re able to first, but if not, just leave ’em til morning.”

Hacker snapped his fingers, stepped forward, and grinned. “I just thought of the name for our little outfit.”

Rip’s brow furrowed. “And what might that be, Hacker?”

“Tombstone Squad. I remember it from a video game back in the day.” Hacker turned his attention to Colonel Patterson. “That’ll be our call sign. If we run into anything we can’t handle…”

Patterson held up a hand. “We’ll be listening.”

“We have radios?” Rip asked.

“Not many. You can thank Hacker there for fixing the few we
do
have. Keep ’em safe; we don’t have much to spare.”

Rip snapped a salute of his own. “Yes, sir.”

Patterson returned the salute and slowly turned and walked away.

Rip motioned to the four horses waiting. “All right, boys. The four horsemen ride.”

“Got your reference, there sarge,” Hacker said, winking and pointing to Rip. The other two men chuckled slightly, both shaking their heads. “Get it? Four horseman? Apocalypse?”

The other three men were already mounting their horses as Hacker looked for acknowledgement of his intellectual prowess.

“Man, ya’ll ain’t no fun,” Hacker said, climbing his own steed. “Tombstone Squad? Four horsemen? I’m laying it all out for you, and you’re killing me.”

“Let’s go, Hacker. People are counting on us,” Rip said, and led the way.

* * *

An hour later, the sun was set. The macabre setting of a nearly full moon combined with the light fog along the route made for an eerily unsettling atmosphere. The moans of the undead, both nearby and far off, were the symphony of the apocalypse. It was impossible to tell if the whole world was against them, but it sure as hell sounded like it.

Moving about in the darkness was a trick best done with NVGs (night vision goggles), but they were lucky enough to have a working radio; it was best not to press their luck. Rip took up point, followed closely by his cohorts. None of the four men had spoken since leaving Fort Drum, opting to keep quiet and stealthy. One nagging question kept popping back into Rip’s mind, though, and he motioned Witch over to answer it.

Witch’s steed pulled alongside Rip’s. In a loud whisper, he asked him the question rolling around in his head. “Why did you ask Clay about being bitten or scratched?”

“That’s how the virus is spread, we think. Every time we’ve had someone bitten or scratched, they end up turning into one of the dead. I don’t know if it’s the bites that kill them, or the infection, but it is what we have gone with since the beginning,” Witch answered.

If you only knew what I knew, buddy.

“So it’s best not to get bit then,” Rip asked rhetorically, continuing to play dumb. He knew damn good and well that the undead were a plague that was beyond basic understanding. Crayon had called it magic, mysticism. Whatever it was, there was no cure… other than acute lead poisoning to the brain.

Another hour passed before the men reached the Jerry cans of diesel fuel. Clay had said something about a billboard for a strip club on a post. It was difficult in the near total darkness to see them, but the ample moonlight caught the sign at a most opportune time. Rip thought for the last half hour that they had already passed their mark, but he was happy to be disproven. The four men brought their horses to the side of the road and dismounted.

There were only three cans of fuel on the side of the road, each one with five gallons of diesel inside. Rip gently tapped the side of each one with his foot, absently checking to see if they were full. The muffled thud let him know they were.

Rip motioned Witch, Seabass, and Hacker to him. “One can on each one of your horses. Tie ’em down and tie the horses up, we’re on foot from here. Jake’s cabin is about another mile or so into the woods. Hacker, get Colonel Patterson on the radio and let him know we have the cans and are heading towards the cabin.”

Hacker nodded and keyed the shoulder mic for the handheld radio. “Knight Base, this is Tombstone actual, how copy? Over.” Hacker kept his voice not much above a whisper, just enough for the small speaker to pick up.

“Knight Base, go ahead Tombstone. Over.”
The volume on the radio was turned down as far as it would go, but the crackling radio still sounded like gunfire in the still of the night.

“Fuel cans located. Securing cans with transport, heading towards cabin on foot. Over.”

“Copy that, Tombstone. Watch your ass out there. Knight Base out.”

Hacker gave Rip a thumbs up and grabbed his Jerry can. Witch and Seabass had already secured theirs and were tying their respective horses up to the base of the billboard. Rip did the same with his.

“Seabass, huh? Kind of an odd nickname, don’t you think?” Rip asked, tying the horse up as he did.

Seabass chuckled. “This coming from the man everyone keeps calling ‘Rip’?”

“Long story attached to that nickname.”

Seabass tied off his horse and moved over to Rip. “Not with mine. Just an old nickname that came up when I played hockey as a kid. It just kind of stuck. I would’ve been playing for the Bruins by now, but messed my knee up my sophomore year of high school. Uncle Sam didn’t think much of it, and it got me through school for rescue swimmer, so I guess it’s a blessing in disguise.”

“I wouldn’t call being right here, right now, a ‘blessing.’”

“You’ll have to excuse Seabass. He suffers from an excess amount of hope for a world so completely riddled with shit,” Witch said.

Rip shook his head and brought his rifle up. The pain in his right arm wouldn’t let him do much, but at least he could aim. Opting to save his strength, he let the M4 hang from its three-point sling on his chest. He drew his .45 instead, keeping it in front of him as he slowly moved into the tree line. Rip heard safeties being clicked into position behind him, the unofficial announcement that his squad was ready.

Rip slowly stalked forward. Hacker, Witch, and Seabass fanned out behind him, forming a “V,” keeping all eyes forward. Not that it mattered; they couldn’t see shit. The little light they could make out was filtered through the trees in front of them, casting a bluish haze on everything, making it look like there was a giant, dim flashlight leading their way.

Rip counted on his ability to see movement in the dark more than trying to see through the darkness itself. Several times, he slowed down but never raised his .45 to take a shot. Unsuppressed weapons would be the ringing dinner bell for the undead, and he wanted to stave that off as long as possible. If there was a way to sneak in and out without firing a shot, he was all for it.

Everyone around you will die! Tell them if they value their pathetic existence, they will run like the cowards they are right now!

The thundering voice in his head signaled something—something sinister and lurking.

“We’re getting close,” Rip whispered. He didn’t expect the others to hear him, but evidently, they did. Rifles were raised and Rip’s three cohorts assumed tactical movements and positions.

Through the haze of the eerie blue light, Rip spotted their objective. Jake’s cabin could be seen through the trees, but a strange glow permeated it as they approached. In stark contrast to the pale radiance, it looked to be orange. Then it hit Rip.

Fire.

Shit.

Rip threw the tactical aspect out the window. He hastily stuffed his .45 back into its holster and brought up his M4. The adrenaline spiking in his body made him momentarily forget about the aching pain in his arm, and he stormed forward towards the amber-colored light. In his haste, he didn’t see the first zombie until it was on top of him—literally.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed, throwing an elbow at the attacking corpse. The dead thing’s jaw broke as it flailed off to Rip’s left. The broken bone did not slow down the zombie; it continued groping for Rip, snarling, and making other unholy noises as it did.

Seabass stepped forward and drove the spiked end of his tomahawk into the zombie’s skull with a sickening crunch. The dead thing ceased its movement.

Seabass held out a hand, helping Rip up. “Looks like we’ve got company,” he said.

Gunfire erupted from behind Rip as rifles fired into the darkness. At first, Rip wanted to curse them for taking such half-assed shots into the dark, but after standing up and looking towards the cabin, he could see the targets. Silhouetted against the glow were dozens of outlines—outlines of undead stalking towards them.

Rip wasted no time in bringing his own rifle to bear on the approaching undead. He flipped the safety off and began taking calculated headshots at the oncoming corpses. One by one, they started to fall. The splatter of decayed brain matter and clotted blood was silhouetted against the orange of the fire and the colorless moonlight.

No matter how much he tried to put it out of his mind, the fact kept popping up that one of the many zombies in front of him falling by the wayside could be Jake, his wife, or Casey. It was a damn good thing he couldn’t see who he was sending back to hell. The one family that had taken time out of their life to help a half-crazed stranger could be any one of the exploded heads falling in front of him. Rip swallowed down the regret, firing again at two more zombies as they clawed their way to him.

Hacker, Seabass, and Witch all fanned out and began a thorough sweep of the cabin. The fire that was burning in front of the cabin was just enough to give them some light, but not enough to burn down the house. As Rip approached the front of the residence, he could still hear some of the undead banging and clawing inside.

The front door was open, having been torn from its hinges. Rip lowered his rifle and pushed it behind him on its sling. He drew his .45, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

It looked like a slaughterhouse inside of Jake’s cabin. The once simple cabin was now cluttered with broken dishes, glass shards, and splintered wood strewn about. Blood bespattered the walls. The kitchen table was in shambles as well, broken all to pieces and sitting at an odd angle due to one of the legs missing. Rip pushed it aside and moved towards the sound of clawing. The proud painting of General Washington still hung on the wall, stained by crimson. Around the corner from the kitchen table, he spotted Casey’s loft, the ladder still in place.