Dead Legends (Book 1): R.I.P. Van Winkle (15 page)

CHAPTER 22

Hacker approached the Exxon slowly, the Mossberg swinging back and forth like an extension of his vision. Where his eyes went, the twelve gauge followed. It was darker than he could have imagined inside the gas station’s store; he couldn’t see anything. Glass crunched underfoot as he slowly ambled through the main window of the store. Precariously stepping, he felt like each step was a gunshot in the quiet of the enclosed space. Several shelves in various states of disarray greeted him, all of them empty. This place had been picked clean long ago. The probability of it having any useful items was slim, but they had to be sure. The real reason for clearing the store was the still absent undead. Not so much as a cough had been heard since they left the train station, unnerving both men. For a former city of fifty thousand, it was a complete ghost town.

“Anything?” Witch asked from a safe distance outside the store.

“Nothing. Not even a cockroach. Looks clear from here.”

“Dammit. Let’s check around back. If there’s nothing there, we grab the Jerry cans and get the fuck out of here. This place is creeping me out, man.”

Hacker emerged from the darkness, moving towards the door. “Yeah, no shit. Where are all the goddamned zombies? We haven’t seen shit since we left Fort Drum. I hope like hell we don’t have a couple million of those little bastards waiting on us in Sleepy Hollow. Did Sergeant Irving ever tell you exactly
why
we are going after Crane?”

“Crane has his son. He wants to get him back. I think that ought to speak for itself.”

Hacker stepped out into the former parking lot, directly in front of Witch. “Yeah, a son that he—for some reason—hasn’t seen in over ten years. Where the fuck has he been all this time? Also, what is with the girl? We have some of the best special operations people left in humanity and he chooses a fucking teenager to tag along? Something is
definitely
wrong with that picture, dude.”

“Anybody ever tell you that you ask too many goddamned questions?”

Hacker pulled the shotgun close to his chest and grinned devilishly. “All the time, bro.”

Witch turned to walk around to the other side of the store. With any luck, there would be something of use—especially fuel—in the chain-link area behind the store. Witch slung his M4 across his back and picked up the two Jerry cans.

“C’mon. Let’s have a look around back. I got a feeling this whole trip is gonna be for nothing anyway, but we might as well have a look.”

Witch eased around the building, avoiding huge cracks in the pavement and more junk piled up around the back of the store. Numerous old cans, rusted out cars, and other debris littered the path.

A low rumble of thunder echoed in the distance.

“Shit. I say we get back to the truck. There’s exactly dick-shit of use around here,” Hacker said.

Witch had to agree with him. He had blindly followed orders to retrieve fuel from a gas station that had long-since dried up. He shook his head, disappointed. “Yeah, might as well get back before we get a piss-pouring storm dropped on us.”

Hacker turned on his heels to leave. Before he could rationalize what was standing across the road, another reverberation of thunder rolled through the valley, echoing off the dilapidated buildings. Rain began to patter the roof above them. Hacker dropped to one knee and brought up the Mossberg. Had something that big actually gotten the drop on them?

There was no way in hell.

“Shit!” Hacker hissed. “We got a shitload of company!”

* * *

Rip stalked to the deuce-and-a-half. They were about to be in deep shit, and he wanted to get out of Dodge in a hurry.

“Seabass! Get the canvas cover for the truck and cover us up, and cover up that fifty. The rest of you, give him a hand, unless you want to sit on a wet ass the rest of the way!”

Casey kept close to Rip as he instructed the men. She knew something was up but couldn’t figure out exactly what Rip was doing.

“Rip! What is the matter with you?” Casey hissed.

Rip snapped his attention to her. He grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her towards the movement in the distance, now more recognizable and getting closer by the second. There wasn’t much to look at in the distance. Being on the outskirts of the city, nothing but grassland stretched forth until the horizon, but in the meadow beyond the city lurked a slow-moving threat.

Zombies.

Hundreds, if not thousands of them.

“Oh my God,” Casey finally managed out. She raised the H&K MP5SD, but Rip quickly swatted it down.

“Effective range on a subsonic 9mm round is less than two hundred yards. You wouldn’t even make a dent in them from here.” Rip spun her back toward the truck. “Get in the truck and get ready to get the hell out of here. We don’t have much time…”

“Tombstone One, this is Tombstone Three! We have multiple incoming Zulus! There’s probably a thousand of those fuckers headed your way!”
Hacker hissed over the radio. His voice was barely above a whisper, nearly inaudible.

Rip grabbed his mic. “We know, Tombstone Three. Get your ass back here; I’d say we have about three minutes before they get here.”

“Tombstone One, the horde is passing in front of us right now, coming through the city. We need exfil right fucking now!”

Rip’s skin went cold. The tingling sensation that he felt in his chest wasn’t a warm, fuzzy feeling. It was a goddamned death knell ticking away inside his ribcage. He stepped forward towards the truck.

“Tombstone Three, you have about five minutes before we bug out. There is a second horde approximately two hundred yards from our position, and they are moving this way. If we are caught between the two of them, then we are ten shades of fucked. Do you understand me? Get back here and fucking double-time it!”

“Copy that, Tombstone One. Wish us luck, but when we get back we need some serious fucking questions answered.”

Shit,
Rip thought.
Too many questions and no fucking answers. We’re just gonna have to burn that bridge when we come to it.

Witch and Hacker both wanted answers, and with good reason. Rip had yet to tell them about his decade-long nap, his run-ins with Crayon, the Horseman’s voice in his head, and a thousand other fucked up tidbits of information. Would they believe him? Would they still follow a man that could very well still have some serious fucking screws loose? Did it really matter at this point? They were too far into the mission to back out now. They were effectively stranded outside of what they considered home, with little chance of making it back. The odds of them making it back were seriously slim to begin with, and growing smaller by the minute.

An urge came over him.

Fuck ’em. If they don’t make it back, no mutiny. If they don’t make it to us, then there’s no loose end to take care of. Let the problem take care of itself.

These men volunteered to follow you to hell and back! Don’t you fucking dare turn your back on them now!

Rip’s internal struggle continued as his conscience, not the Horseman or Crayon, was getting the better of him. Everything he had known about being a soldier said to take care of the man next to you. You never fucked over a friend; you didn’t become a Blue Falcon to satisfy your own ends. Your men were your life, and they would lay down their life for yours.

As he struggled with the ongoing dilemma in his head, the one that was stalking towards him in real life was slowly getting closer. The Zulus in the grass coming from the horizon were now within earshot, their ghastly moans riding the wind like a surfboard in the ocean. With the ebb and flow of the breeze, the moans became louder and softer, waving back and forth in the distance. As best he could figure, they had less than three minutes before their own personal slice of Armageddon was standing face to face with them.

“Mount up! Clay, you get behind the wheel, but don’t fire the engine just yet. I don’t want any unnecessary noise. Everyone else, get in the truck!”

Colonel Patterson grabbed Rip by the arm. Rip locked eyes with the aging colonel.

“We still have two men out there, sergeant; men that
you
sent out. We’re not going anywhere until they get back here.”

Rip tore loose his arm from Patterson. “With all due respect, sir, our mission is more important than them. We have to make it Sleepy Hollow, or this whole world will be going tits-up real fucking quick.”

Patterson frowned angrily. “Just what exactly are we supposed to do then, sergeant? We don’t have enough ammo to take out all of them.”

Rip swiftly looked to the truck and back to Patterson

“We hide.”

CHAPTER 23

The procession moved past Witch and Hacker silently, like a grotesque, black parade. Hundreds of zombies shuffled, one after another, towards an unknown destination. No moans, no growls, and no other macabre sounds came from the undead army. As Hacker slowly clipped the mic back on his chest rig, he watched the convoy of Zulus moving silently in front of him. None of the decayed zombies looked his way, and he was damn glad for that. Five minutes to get through an area that took twenty minutes the first time across.

Hacker slowly eased forward, kneeling beside Witch and gently tapping the buttstock of the Mossberg at his ribs. Witch looked back to see Hacker shrugging his shoulders.

“What the hell are they doing? And why aren’t they making any noise?” Witch whispered.

“I have no idea, but Rip is gonna leave us here if we aren’t back in five mikes.”

“What?” Witch asked, his voice a little louder than he would have liked it.

Hacker held up a finger to his lips. “Not so fucking loud!” he hissed. “Irving said there’s another horde about two hundred yards out from the train station and closing. If we don’t make it back in time they are gonna leave us to the fucking Zulus!”

Hacker stood, ready to bolt out of the gas station. From where he and Witch were hiding, they were well out of sight of the undead, hidden in a dark corner near the front of the store. Witch grabbed his arm as he stood, stopping him.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Witch growled.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m not getting left behind, Witch,” Hacker growled back. He looked to the back of the store, and then back to his partner. “C’mon, we’ll sneak out the back and haul ass back to the truck. Drop the fucking Jerry cans. They’re no use to us now.”

Witch had grabbed the twin five-gallon cans, but now set them back down. Hacker was right. With as many zombies as there were in and around the city, carrying ten gallons of diesel paled in comparison to getting the hell out of Utica.

Hacker kept the Mossberg in his shoulder, sweeping back and forth, as he exited the back door of the station. Witch followed, keeping his M4 at low ready, and scanning the area for hostiles.

It only took a matter of seconds before he found one.

Hacker froze.

A lone zombie had wandered away from the pack of hundreds streaming down the street. Witch spotted him as well and stopped, the heel of his foot just barely making contact with the ground. Every muscle in his body tensed as he watched the singular zombie. It looked to be about fifty feet away and faced the left side of the street. Witch realized that if the Zulu decided to look to his left, then they were going to be completely and utterly fucked.

Hacker held his breath.

Witch slowly raised his M4, peering through the ACOG.

The zombie suddenly and inexplicably snapped his gaze to the left.

It let out an inhuman shriek, splitting the air. Black drool dripped from his mouth and fell on his chest, slathering the front of the walking corpse with tar. The solitary zombie turned to make a line of attack aimed straight at Witch and Hacker.

Hacker raised the Mossberg and fired, the shotgun’s report echoing off the buildings.

The lone zombie’s head disappeared. Skull fragments skittered off the pavement. What remained of its brain splattered against the concrete, sounding like someone had dropped meatloaf from a second story window.

A thousand more unnatural screams filled the air.

Hacker racked the shotgun, filling the chamber with another twelve-gauge slug. Realizing what he’d done, he spun around to Witch. He grabbed his cohort by the arm. Witch’s eyes were bulged, and his pulse pounded.

Hacker yanked Witch ahead and yelled at the top of his lungs.

“Fucking
run!
”

* * *

The air stank of fear and decay. Even with the windows up and the vents closed, the smell permeated the enclosed cab of the deuce-and-a-half. The pungent odor of decomposition burned the eyes and nostrils as the horde of undead passed the truck. Rip, Clay, and Casey lay down in the front of the deuce-and-a-half, making sure that they could not be seen. The truck sat high off the ground, but they weren’t taking any chances on being found.

Colonel Patterson and Seabass lay silently in the back of the truck as the undead procession trudged past. Their ruse had worked so far even as the occasional zombie bumped into the side of the truck. The sounds of shuffling feet, pawing hands, and the ever-present moans passed by as the men remained undetected.

Rip kept himself tense. He couldn’t help but loathe the situation he was forced into. Outnumbered and unable to fend off the enemy was not his forte. Of course, storming in, guns blazing, and getting his ass eaten off wasn’t his idea of getting the job done either, but he was certain the answer lay somewhere in the middle.

Casey was seated in the floorboards of the truck. She peeked over the edge of the seat and made eye contact with Rip. She opened her mouth to speak, but Rip held a finger to his lips. No unnecessary noise.

Casey lowered back down and gritted her teeth. The scrapes of fingernails against the door sent a shudder down her spine. The “nails on a chalkboard” sound had always bothered her, but now that it was being made by otherworldly creatures like zombies, it became wholly unbearable.

A single shot echoed, breaking the stillness of the moment.

The undead took exception to the sound. Guttural noises and moans lifted through the air like an erupting volcano. To the hundreds of wayward ghouls, it was a ringing dinner bell.

Several more shots rang out, and the throng of zombies collectively turned to the sound. They began to meander away from the truck and into the center of town.

“Dammit, Hacker,” Rip swore quietly to himself. He tried to position himself better. He needed to look outside, but the urge to remain silent and unnoticed was greater than his need to spy.

“Tombstone One this is Tombstone Three! We are engaging multiple hostiles en route to your location! Open up, motherfuckers! Here we come!”

The undead that had not yet moved out of hearing range of the truck turned towards the deuce-and-a-half truck. They began beating in earnest on the side of the vehicle, growling and attempting to get inside.

“I guess that’s our cue, brother,” Clay said.

“Shit. I guess so, Clay. Fire it up!” Rip replied.

Rip shot up from his seat and keyed the radio. “Copy that, Tombstone Three. We are bugging out as soon as we have you in sight. We’ll provide cover fire once we have visual on you. Get your asses in gear!”

“We are a half mile from your position! Recommend you fire up that Ma Deuce and thin these fuckers out! We have hostiles to our six and your horde in front of us! Plow the fucking road, already!”
Hacker sounded like he was running for the first time in five years. He sounded out of breath and on the verge of an aneurysm.

Rip pounded on the roof above him. “Seabass! Light ’em up!”

Seabass shot up from his lackadaisical position in the bed of the truck. He threw the tarp off the M2 Browning and grabbed the butterfly triggers on the massive machine gun.

Then he opened fire.

A wave of zombies about thirty feet away from him caught the first of the fifty-caliber rounds, cutting them down at the waist, tearing through spines and ribcages. Black ooze splattered and what little blood remained in the creatures became aerosolized pink mist. More than a dozen were cut down within the first few seconds of the massive barrage.

Seabass adjusted the sights on the gun and fired again, this time severing heads and bursting skulls like rotten, hairy melons. The remaining threats that were too close for the fifty caliber to engage surrounded the truck.

Rip rolled down the window to his right, stuck his M4 out, and began to thin out the closest targets. Three zombies fell, each taking a haphazardly fired round to the head. Rip grabbed the door handle and put his shoulder into it violently, pushing back several more zombies. The force that he put into the door spilled him onto the ground, but he quickly recovered. He brought his rifle into his shoulder and started taking accurate shots into the crowd around the truck. A moment of clarity struck him suddenly, and he realized that neither Colonel Patterson nor Casey was firing.

“Don’t just fucking stand there! Give me a fucking hand here!”

Colonel Patterson turned to the rear and drew his 1911 .45. His first shot dropped a creature with a torn and tattered baseball jersey.

“Goddamn Yankees!” Patterson cursed.

Casey slid down from the truck, her MP5SD clattering to the ground as she exited. Scrambling frantically, she pawed at the submachine gun, desperately trying to gain purchase. Her grasp failed her just as another wayward Zulu stepped in front of her.

Fear immobilized her as she looked up.

An instant later, she was covered in foul-smelling goo.

As the zombie fell, she felt Clay grab her by the collar and drag her back into the truck. Her legs refused to work as she scrambled backwards into the cab. She landed flat on her back, Clay’s .45 hovering over her. Her ears rang fiercely as spent shell casings landed around her. Blinking away the smoke, she tried to make herself as small as she could.

One by one, the immediate threats fell. Rip dropped his empty magazine and slammed home another. Bodies lay strewn out all around him, each one a testament to their judicious marksmanship.

A moment of silence passed.

Several shots rang out in quick procession.

Clay started the truck. “Get in! I’ve got eyes on Hacker and Witch inbound with a shitload of company!”

The gunfire stopped, but the moans of the undead wailed on, reaching a grotesque crescendo as they quickly approached.

Rip circled his finger in the air. “Mount up! Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

The back gate of the truck clanged down, and Colonel Patterson quickly clambered inside. Patterson scrambled in, pulling the gate closed as he did. Gunfire greeted him as he took a seat, the fifty caliber booming over them.

“Well, this is a fine fuckin’ mess, ain’t it?” Patterson said aloud to no one in particular.

Rip grabbed Casey’s MP5SD off the ground and jumped into the cab of the truck. He tossed the submachine gun on the seat and slammed the door shut behind him.

Clay was gripping the steering wheel as Rip sat on the seat. Rip regarded him with an indignant look and threw his hands up.

“What are you waiting for? Go!”

Clay was hesitant to move the truck. Quickly glancing to his left, he saw Hacker running for his life with Witch in tow a few yards behind him.

“Here they come!” Clay viciously rolled the window down, throwing the truck in gear as he did. Hacker was within twenty yards, and the horde was not far behind him, stalking towards them like a determined plague. “Grab on!” Clay yelled.

The truck lurched forward and to the right, bellowing black smoke from its stacks as it did. Clay spun the wheel and accelerated.

“Don’t you fucking leave me!” Hacker screamed as he sprinted towards the back of the truck.

The deuce-and-a-half sped away, kicking up dust as it did. Seabass reached out a hand to aid Hacker as he continued sprinting towards the truck. He kicked the gate down and motioned to Colonel Patterson.

“Hang on to me and help me get him in!” Seabass yelled.

Patterson moved forward and grabbed Seabass by the belt as he inched outside the truck. Hacker was gaining ground, but just barely. Seabass stretched forth as much as he could, dangling his fingers out as Hacker’s lifeline.

Seabass noticed the struggle to get Hacker back inside and pounded on the side of the truck.

“Clay! Slow it up for a second!”

The truck slowed ever so slightly. Seabass grabbed Hacker’s hand and yanked him in as hard as his limited grasp would allow. Hacker grabbed for anything he could with his free hand and managed to snag the strap for the tailgate. He hefted himself in and promptly collapsed in the back of the truck.

“One down, one to…” Seabass started to say. As he turned, he noticed that a mass of zombies had commenced an all-you-can-eat buffet on Witch. Unfortunately, Witch had fallen while trying to catch up to the truck, and now the undead were having their way with what was left of his body. Seabass smacked the side of the truck hard as it sped off, disappointed with their leadership’s decision to essentially leave a man behind.

Hacker lay on the floor of the truck, panting heavily. Colonel Patterson knelt down beside him and held his hand on Hacker’s chest.

“You all right, son?”

Hacker sat up on his elbows. “Yeah, I’m good. I fucking
hate
being dependable!”