Omega Days (Book 3): Drifters (22 page)

As he sat in the living room of the small house, Leah was once more in his lap. She always wanted to cuddle more when she wasn’t feeling well. Dean’s hand slowly smoothed her long, damp hair.

“Daddy?” she said.

“Yes, sweetie. Are you thirsty?” He uncapped a bottle of water, but she pushed it away.

“Daddy, Santa has a deer.”

“That’s right, a reindeer.”

She was quiet for a while, then asked, “Did Santa come yet?”

Dean smiled. It was the first time she had mentioned the subject in days. “He sure did, and he brought you a present. Would you like to see it?”

She shook her head and closed her eyes. Dean soaked the washrag from the water bottle and folded it over her head, half expecting it to sizzle when it touched her skin. He glanced at the front door, where one of the assault rifles stood on its stock, leaning against the frame. He found he looked at the door often.

It was two weeks since their discovery by the scavengers. A few drifters did finally show up to paw at the walls of the convenience store but soon moved on. Even the crows no longer came and went. He imagined by now there wouldn’t be much left up there.

Once a day he switched on the walkie-talkie and listened for ten minutes, taking notes when he could, then switching it off to conserve the battery. Over the past two days the signal had seemed weaker, the voices harder to make out. Soon it would be as dead and silent as the city around them.

After that first day, however, no one mentioned the two missing people again. That told him something about the nature of the opposition. The raid on the ranch had given a clear demonstration about their regard for life, of course, but it was now obvious they cared little for their own as well. This was not only good news, but expected. Dean knew from his urban warfare training that outlaw bands tended to implode as they turned on one another. They were different from the insurgents he had fought, a people united by faith and culture, family and political ideology. The band in control of Chico was nothing like that; they were dangerous parasites feeding off a dead world and its survivors. Eventually they would begin to prey upon each other until they disappeared completely.

Dean didn’t think he had that sort of time, though.

Leah needed more care than Dean could provide alone. She needed safer shelter, a community, other children. He did not doubt that there were groups of decent people still out there, communities where people relied on and trusted one another, protected each other from the horrors of this frightening new world. Dean had the kind of combat and field skills that would be welcome in such a community, and he could trade those abilities in exchange for sanctuary for Leah and himself.

Angie wasn’t coming. He was beginning to accept it, forcing himself to believe it. The idea hurt, and it was difficult to even think the unspoken words, but how long could he continue to expose Leah to the dangers in Chico? Sooner or later they would be discovered, by chance or during a move to a new location once supplies ran out. This fearful Gypsy existence had to end.

Leah’s eyes remained closed as in a sleepy voice she said, “Daddy, the sun is made of fire.”

“Shh,” he crooned, still stroking her hair.

After a moment she whispered, “And the moon is made of light.”

Dean smiled and breathed deeply, resting his hand on her too-hot head. It all had to be about Leah now. His heart broke for his lost wife as he accepted what needed to be done, and he turned all his thoughts to his daughter in an attempt to push the grief away. They would be leaving, starting a new life together, and he would find them someplace truly safe.

His left hand trembled, the PTSD putting him on notice that the Fear Animal might very well decide not to cooperate.

•   •   •

L
eah’s fever broke that evening and stayed away. By morning she was hungry and wanting to play a little, and Dean breathed a sigh of shaky relief. He asked her if she was feeling okay so many times that the little girl finally said, “Daddy, stop.”

By December 28 she was asking about Santa and expressed a joy unique to three-year-olds when Dean showed her the gift the jolly old elf had left for her, another small pony with hair she could comb.

“Santa loves me,” she said, marching her two ponies side by side across the living room carpet.

“Yes, he does,” said Dean.

He began planning immediately, as he would take the time necessary to find a vehicle, outfit and stock it properly, and calculate a route and destination. He was thinking north, possibly Eureka. There was no way he would leave Leah home alone while he prepared, so he would have to risk bringing her along on his preparation missions, but not until she was a little stronger.

Dean gave himself a two-week window. After that, he and Leah would leave Chico forever.

January 13—Halsey’s Place

Vladimir hit the ground beside the cabin and at once was surrounded by snarls and grabbing hands. He snapped on the flashlight and ran from Halsey’s tower, intent on retrieving his night-vision goggles, shadowy shapes lurching at him from the front and sides. A hand caught at the sleeve of his coat and he jerked away, running into a rotting woman who clawed at him, ragged fingernails tearing the nylon of his jacket. He shouldered her aside as more hands tore at his back, a middle-aged man galloping in from the right, a teenage boy with yellowing skin snapping and charging him from the front.

The pilot shrugged out of his coat, freeing himself from the creatures to his rear, dodged the teenager, and straight-armed the middle-aged man, knocking him down but nearly losing fingers to gnashing teeth. The dead wailed all around him.

The jittering flashlight lit the ground before him, lumpy turf coated in snow and marred by dragging footprints. His boots pounded the earth as he broke free from the knot of drifters gathering around the cabin, a chorus of hungry growls now to his left. A pass of the light in that direction revealed a line of corpses, four or five deep, marching toward him. His heart hammering, Vlad moved in the direction of the Black Hawk, out there somewhere in the darkness.

He could smell them, a moist odor of decay curdling the air, and within several minutes the scent was joined by the acrid bite of quicklime. Halsey’s mass grave. He was heading in the right direction, the Black Hawk waiting midway between the cabin and the lime pit.

Suddenly something was underfoot and he tripped, falling forward, losing the flashlight as he hit the snowy ground. In an instant there was a weight on his legs and he twisted, trying to break free. The flashlight had fallen at such an angle that the beam pointed back toward him, and in the light he saw a dead woman—a torso with arms and gnashing teeth, spinal column trailing behind her—lying across his lower legs and gripping his right boot with both hands. Teeth sank into the leather.

Vlad grunted and kicked with his other boot, kicked again, aiming for the creature’s head but hitting ribs and shoulder. The dead woman seemed to realize her teeth could not penetrate the boot, so she scrabbled up his leg and gripped his shin, jaws wide.

The crack of Vladimir’s Browning split the night and he screamed, pain racing up his leg. He dragged himself clear of the corpse’s weight, the limp body rolling off and landing on its back. The bullet had entered just above its ear on one side and blown out a chunk of skull and corrupted gray matter on the other.

Vlad tried to swallow the pain as he crawled to his feet, retrieving the flashlight and shining it back toward the cabin. The line of corpses had turned to follow him, and now stretched out as a barrier between him and his friend. The pilot turned and got going again, limping badly, searching with the flashlight. The Black Hawk was still nowhere in sight.

Behind him, Vladimir was leaving a blood trail.

•   •   •

T
itan and Braga throttled up the stone-paved driveway, now buckled in places and sagging in others from the quake. Their headlights illuminated a gentle rise as they drove along a curved drive through lawns once immaculately landscaped, now gone shaggy and brown with clusters of dead hedges. A rich man’s place, they thought. Behind them, the three pickups added their headlights as they followed the Harleys.

The driveway curved back to the right, passing a dirt road that cut away over a hill, coming to a halt at a large paved circle in front of a burned mansion and charred garages. The pickups spread out behind them as the two bikers sat on their hogs, headlights shining on collapsed stone and a skeleton of blackened timbers. The quake had collapsed the structure further, creating a maze of debris. Engines switched off.

“What’s up with this?” Braga said. “Zombies don’t set fires.”

Titan lit a joint. “We’ve seen burned shit before.” He shrugged. “Gas leak, lightning maybe.”

“Maybe,” said Braga. He climbed off his bike and stretched, then yelled back at the people in the trucks. “Spread out and look around.” A dozen men and women jumped down and started into the ruins, flashlights and weapons raised.

Braga looked around at the destruction. “No place to land a helicopter up here. The map said it was a ranch.”

Titan passed the joint. “Don’t know what to tell you.”

Braga watched Little Emer’s militia move slowly through the ruins, kicking up clouds of ash, lights jumping through fallen beams. He doubted anyone would be hiding in there, but their leader would want him to be thorough. He held the smoke and passed the joint back to his friend. The goddamned helicopter was probably hundreds of miles away by now. Why would anyone want to land out here in the sticks?

“You see that dirt road we passed?” Braga said. “Just off the driveway?”

Titan nodded. “So what?”

“I think we should see where it goes.”

The red tip of the joint flared. “Brother, we’re wasting our time. Let’s just tell him we didn’t find anything.”

Braga snorted. “Sure, let’s do that, and when the fucking chopper
does
show up because we didn’t find it, you can tell the man why.”

The other biker made a disgusted sound and crushed the butt of the joint under a boot. “Fine, we’ll check the road. But I’m telling you—”

A single, distant gunshot came from beyond the burned mansion. Titan and Braga looked at one another, then grinned and started yelling for the others to get back in the trucks.

•   •   •

H
alsey’s Stampede followed through the woods and out onto the Skyway, tracking on the distant rumble of engines. Stiff legs marched across the pavement, bodies bumping against one another as two thousand corpses trudged in the same direction. A river of rot flowing around abandoned vehicles.

The creatures at the head of the Stampede had drawn even with the driveway entrance to Pepper’s Broken Arrow Ranch when a pistol shot echoed in the distance. Heads lifted, turning toward the sound. A moment later there was a new rumbling of engines.

The dead began to moan, and flowed up the driveway.

•   •   •

F
uck
me
!” Braga said, bringing his hog to a sliding stop, Titan doing the same, the brake lights of the trucks following an instant later. A tattered, hobbling corpse wearing scrubs and a doctor’s coat stumbled into the road not twenty feet away.

Both bikers pulled their shotguns and blasted off a trio of shells each, cutting the creature down. Then they motored forward to inspect their kill.

“Damn, it stinks!” said Titan.

“That scare you, bro?” Braga said, grinning as he reloaded his shotgun.

“Hell yes,” said Titan, feeding shells into his own weapon.

Braga laughed. “C’mon,” he said, throttling his Harley, “let’s go put in some work.” Behind them, the pickups followed.

•   •   •

H
alsey stared into the black, trying to ignore the hammering fists and snarling coming from below as the dead began stacking up against the walls of the cabin. Though he couldn’t see them in the dark, he could hear more feet dragging across the yard, bumping against his pickup. He couldn’t tell how many were out there and wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Where was Vlad? The man had vanished into the night as soon as he jumped off the roof. Had he run in the right direction? Was he even still alive? Halsey gripped the tower wall and leaned out, unable to see a thing.

A white flash and the crack of a pistol came from the darkness, followed immediately by a man’s scream. Halsey stared at that point, thinking he saw a light, wondering if it was his imagination. No, it was a flashlight. It moved and then was gone.

Glass broke below as the dead shattered the cabin’s windows and began hammering at the wooden shutters.

“Come on, buddy,” Halsey said.

•   •   •

V
ladimir’s flashlight swept across the black fuselage of the helicopter just as the cloud cover parted, the landscape suddenly lit with moonlight. A corpse with one arm missing was pawing at the cockpit’s windscreen, and it turned as the pilot approached, yellow eyes shining in the flashlight beam. It lurched away from the aircraft and came toward him, and Vlad raised his pistol and shot it in the face.

Moans chorused from the field behind, and the Russian turned to see the wall of decay trudging toward him. His pilot’s brain calculated the math: their distance, speed of approach, the time he would need for his new task. The numbers weren’t in his favor.

He climbed up into the troop compartment, wincing at the pain and leaving a blood trail across snow and metal, then ducked into the cockpit. He took the night-vision goggles from their compartment above the pilot’s seat and hung them around his neck. Even without them, the newly arrived moonlight gave him a panoramic view of the approaching dead, confirming that his original plan, to return to the cabin with the goggles, was now impossible. The cabin and outbuildings, as well as the landscape around it, teemed with the walking dead. There were several hundred, maybe more, and Vladimir saw that he would not make it back to Halsey, especially limping with this wound.

Wasn’t that ironic? He had survived the opening act of the apocalypse, escaped death countless times both on the ground and in the air, all without a scratch. Now this, a self-inflicted gunshot wound that had almost certainly blown off one of his toes. He had been practically touching the side of the torso-zombie’s skull with the Browning when he fired, and the high-powered bullet had punched completely through the creature’s head, then right through his boot just inches beyond.

It hurt like a bastard. He had crippled himself and was now leaving a bloody trail as an invitation to the undead.

A line of headlights appeared on the road above Halsey’s ranch, winding down from the burned-out mansion. Vladimir didn’t have to guess who they were. He threw another glance at the wall of corpses plodding toward the Black Hawk, muttered a curse in Russian, and started firing up the turbines.

•   •   •

T
he clouds were breaking up, and below them the small ranch was revealed in the moonlight. In a field beyond the cabin sat the dark shape of a military helicopter.

Braga stopped and jumped off his motorcycle, waving to the trucks. “There it is! Go kick some ass!”

The pickups raced past the Harleys and down toward the ranch, men and women in the truck beds holding on to the sides.

“Yeah, get some!” Titan shouted after them. Then he produced another joint and fired it up. Braga stood nearby with his hands in his pockets. They would have a great view of the action, safe up here on the hillside.

•   •   •

H
alsey looked down from the tower in every direction, seeing the dead in the new moonlight. He could also see the Black Hawk now, and with his binoculars he spotted Vlad in the cockpit, illuminated in the red glow of instruments. A mob of at least fifty corpses was closing in on the chopper.

He wanted to shoot them, increase his friend’s chance of getting airborne—for that was surely what he was attempting—but didn’t dare. The dead were between Halsey’s rifle and the Black Hawk. A miss would risk hitting Vlad. It didn’t occur to him that the Russian was trying to escape while Halsey was still trapped in the tower. Even if it had, the ranch hand had always been a practical man and would not blame people for protecting their own lives.

Halsey dropped back down the ladder into the cabin and filled a canvas pack with ammunition from the gun rack, including a box of shells for the big pistol on his hip. When he climbed back up, he was also carrying the scoped deer rifle and a Winchester lever-action. Halsey kicked the roof hatch shut and started loading the weapons.

The echoing blasts of shotguns pulled his attention to the hillside, where a line of headlights was snaking down from the main house. After a moment, three pairs of lights left two others behind, engines racing as they closed on the ranch.

“Couldn’t do much when you came to the Franks place,” Halsey said, raising the deer rifle and working the bolt. “This here’s a different story. You ain’t got your tank, and I ain’t a grandpa.” He sighted and fired, blowing out the windshield of the first pickup. It swerved but kept on. Halsey ejected the spent casing, sending it spinning into the night. He led the truck a bit and fired again, hitting the left front tire. Damn! He had been aiming for the windshield. Still, there was a loud bang and the pickup ground to a halt on the side of the road.

Moonlight flashed on brass as a new round entered the breech. “Ain’t too smart, are you?” The rifle cracked and the stock slammed back into his shoulder. One of the men in the bed of the stopped truck flew out of it backward. The others scrambled after him, taking cover. He began firing faster, the darkness and partial moonlight working against his aim, causing him to miss more often than he hit. Halsey focused simply on hitting the truck, hoping for the best. The left rear tire blew. A hole appeared harmlessly in the side of the truck bed. More misses, and then he was quickly reloading. Moments later he was up and firing again. A bullet punched a hole midway up the driver’s door. Good. Anyone still inside the cab would be trying to hold their intestines in with their hands by now.

Muzzle flashes appeared around the disabled pickup as its occupants started returning fire. A few bullets thudded into the cabin; others chipped at the wood of the observation tower. Halsey dropped to one knee to finish loading.

The remaining two trucks roared off the hill and up the road toward Halsey’s compound, crossing the point where he would have had a gate and a moat if there had been enough time. Dead bodies banged against grilles and hoods and were flung away as the trucks full of raiders drove into the hard-packed yard. Weapons fired from the truck bed in all directions, hitting the walking dead that turned toward the new arrivals.

Halsey stood, saw the trucks below, and raised his rifle. A volley of fire from the disabled pickup filled the air with snaps and whistles, chewing wood off the tower and forcing the ranch hand to drop back down. He swapped the deer rifle for the quicker lever-action with its open sights. To his right, out across the open ground, came the whine of aircraft turbines spooling up. A moment later he heard the engine of one of the trucks in the yard revving as the driver gunned away from the buildings and out into the field toward the Black Hawk.