Plague World (Ashley Parker Novel) (28 page)

“Yeah, maybe,” I managed.

But I didn’t really believe it.

The leader kick-started his bike, and the others followed suit. The engines rumbled deep and low, which was good—they wouldn’t attract too much attention, at least no more than necessary. He looked back, and noticed that I was still standing there.

“Waiting for something?”

I sent a silent salute to Aimee and Appel and then gave one last look towards the zoo.

I’m sorry, Lil.

“No,” I said, wiping my eyes. “Not any more.”

I slid onto the back of his bike.

The back streets of San Diego were surprisingly dead.

Deserted, that is. There were zombies to be seen, mind you, but at random intervals and mostly easy to ignore. Whatever larger crowds might have been attracted by the sound of our bikes, they never had the chance to get near us. These guys were experts at getting in and out of places quickly and efficiently. Their leader was my current chauffeur.

“Are we anywhere near the bridge to North Island?” I asked, yelling into his ear to be heard above the throaty rumble of the engine. “I mean, there’s a naval base there, right?”

“There is,” he said with an exaggerated nod. “But if that was an option, your friend would’ve called them, instead of us. Either the base is no longer viable, or someone thinks they can’t be trusted. But then you already knew that, didn’t you?”

Damn.

“Just making sure you’re not blowing smoke up my ass,” I admitted. “Trust doesn’t come very easily these days, y’know?”

He laughed. “Yeah, I can’t argue with that.”

Their club was called Veterans Allegiance, and their names were stitched on their vests amid the other military or patriotic patches. The leader was Dragon, and the silver-haired gentleman who’d groped me earlier was Viper. The two ninjas were Dirty Bird—the one with the beard—and Rooster.

Zilla was the older of the two big dudes, while Bear was the one with the goatee. The last one, Cheeky, had been keeping an eye on the zombies before we’d bailed out of Balboa Park. I’d wondered what he’d done to get the shitty end of the nickname stick, but after he shot me a couple of leering glances, I had a pretty good idea.

We hit a rough patch on the way down the hill, and it hurt like a bitch. With the adrenaline rush gone, I was feeling every bit of that ass-kicking I’d gotten from Sykes. My side hurt with each breath I took, my lips felt like they’d been turned inside out, and my left eye was all but swollen shut. The pounding in my head was the worst, and every bump in the road made it worse.

I wrapped my arms around Dragon’s waist, laid my head against his back and closed my eyes, trying to will the pain away. Then we hit a particularly nasty bump in the road, and the pain went away as things went black.

* * *

I came to lying on the ground, JT kneeling by my side with an uncharacteristically concerned look on his battered face. The biker named Rooster was there as well, leaning over me as he buttoned my shirt up the front. Which meant my shirt had been unbuttoned at some point between my passing out and waking up.

“What the hell?”

“It’s okay, Ash,” JT said quickly. “Guy’s an army medic, not an asshole. He’ll take care of you.”

“Gee, thanks, kid,” the biker said.

I relaxed, relieved I didn’t have to defend my honor when I felt like hammered shit.

Rooster finished buttoning my shirt.

“You have a couple of busted ribs,” he said, very matter-of-fact, “but I imagine you already knew that. I wrapped ’em as best I could. It’ll feel a little tight at first, but we need to keep them immobilized as much as possible.”

He leaned over with a small flashlight and shined it into my eyes once, then twice.

“You may have a slight concussion, as well. But I doubt either one will be giving you a problem for very long. You seem to heal remarkably fast, Ms. Parker. I was gonna stitch up your lips, too, and that split over your cheekbone, but they’re already knitting on their own. You oughta tell me how that works.”

“It’s a long story,” I grunted as JT helped me up into a sitting position. I looked around, and saw that we were parked in the middle of what looked like a country lane, with trees and weeds flanking the road. “Where the hell are we?”

“Mission Hills,” Rooster said, standing up. “Above the airport. We’ve found our first target. Time to suit up.” He grabbed his med kit and returned to his bike.

The other bikers were suited up and prepared for battle. To a man they’d donned leather chaps and heavy leather jackets with reinforced skid panels in the arms and back, along with equally heavy gloves. They looked like a squad of Arnolds from
Terminator 2
. Zilla had further accessorized with a couple loops of log chain and a fist-sized padlock draped across one shoulder.

JT nudged me and nodded in the biker’s direction.

“He’d make a much better Ghost Rider than Nicolas Cage, dontcha think?”

I snorted. “Who wouldn’t?” He and Cheeky helped me to my feet and over to the edge of the road, where Dragon was standing with his foot on a guardrail, peering through a pair of binoculars.

Beyond that guardrail the ground dropped away precipitously, so much it made me dizzy just to look. The wall of the canyon was mostly loose rock and scrub, bare in some places and overgrown in others. On our side, the slope was almost vertical. On the other side of the canyon, however, it was terraced in places.

We were looking down on a cul-de-sac of small bungalows that sprouted from the hillside like mushrooms from a stump. I counted six in this particular cluster, all in the same faux-rustic style. Very nice, from the look of it, probably quite pricey.

I borrowed Dragon’s binoculars for a closer look. Signs of violence were everywhere—blood spattered on the sidewalks, on the broken windows of cars, running down the side panels. I could make out red drag marks on the stoop of one house. Then I saw an overturned Big Wheel on the sidewalk, and stopped looking.

“That one,” Dragon said, directing my attention to the house at the back of the drive. “It belongs to a Richard McCamey. He dabbles in real estate, mostly to cover his backroom gun dealings.”

“
Alleged
gun dealings,” Rooster interjected.

Dragon gave a derisive snort. “Yeah, the guy’s got some hella-good lawyers. But at least he deals in quality stuff. No Lorcins or Hi-Points.”

I had no idea what that meant, and decided I didn’t care.

“And judging from the quantities he’s been moving lately,” Dragon continued, “even if he bugged out when things went down, no way he’d have taken everything with him.”

I dared another look with the binoculars, careful not to hit the swollen eye.

“Windows are intact, everything’s closed up. What if he’s still in there?”

Dragon put on his sunglasses and grinned.

“We ask him to share. Nicely, of course.” He headed for his bike, and the others followed suit. JT and I started to follow, but Dragon held up a hand. “You two stay here and rest up.” I opened my mouth to argue, but he gave me a stern look. “And don’t give me no shit about it either. This is our dance.”

Silver Hair—Viper—gave Cheeky a smack on the shoulder.

“You stay, too, and keep an eye on ’em. Make sure they stay put.”

Cheeky’s eyes bugged out of his head cartoon-style, which got quite a laugh from the other bikers.

“Aw, c’mon, Don!” he railed. “That’s not fair! How long do I have to keep putting up with this bullshit.”

“Until you’re not the FNG anymore.” The older man laughed. “So get used to it.” The rest of the gang started up their bikes, drowning out Cheeky’s sputtering tirade as they pulled away and rumbled off down the road. The sound of their engines faded into the distance, rolling around the canyon like echoes of distant thunder.

JT and I went back to the guardrail, watching until we could pick out the bikes on the far side of the canyon, coming up the road to the housing addition, finally turning into the cul-de-sac itself and parking in front of the McCamey house.

There were four or five zombies already in the driveway and others emerged from open doors and around the sides of houses, drawn by the sound of the bikes. Despite this, the bikers shut off their engines and dismounted so casually they might have been going to a barbecue.

Dragon and Viper headed directly for the house, Viper kicking in the front door while the others fanned out across the cul-de-sac and met the dead head-on. I watched and admired.

Rooster was the most explosive, throwing elbows to the forehead that dropped two zeds in their tracks. He finished them off with a steel-toed boot. Dirty Bird favored some sort of wire garrote held between his fists. In one smooth movement he would brush past a zom, loop the wire round its neck, then give the line a pull and watch the head pop off cleanly.

“I want one of those,” JT said as he watched Bird in action. “Don’t you?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’ll stick to my katana.”

Or would, if Griff hadn’t stolen it.

Bear’s approach was less complicated. He used his bulk to bowl down the zombies in his path like ninepins, leaving the actual coup de grâce to Zilla, who used his chain like a steel whip, working the big mace-like padlock on the end and looking like he was having the time of his life. Even with the distance I thought I could hear him laughing.

“Goddammit… it ain’t right…” Cheeky muttered under his breath, still sulking at being left out of the action.

“Dude,” JT whispered to him, “on your left.”

Cheeky and I turned just in time to see two figures round the bend in the road, shuffling toward us—a young black male, barely out of his teens, with an arm missing and rib bones jutting from his torso, and the other so chewed up that its gender and ethnicity were hard to determine. It staggered toward us with an unblinking stare.

Cheeky gave JT a smack on the shoulder.

“I owe ya, man.” Then he drew a claw hammer from his belt and headed out with a smile.

“Interesting guy,” JT observed.

I nodded. “And so easy to shop for.”

We turned back to the battle of the cul-de-sac, but it was already over. There were no more active zoms in sight. As we watched, Dragon and Viper exited the house with several duffle bags, which they strapped to their bikes. Dragon looked up our way and gave a little salute before hopping on his bike and leading the way.

* * *

They rejoined us within five minutes, looking pleased with themselves. Viper opened up one of the duffle bags and started handing out handguns and ammo like some sort of Santa on steroids.

“Who wants the 1911s?” he asked. Dragon, Bird and Zilla raised their hands and got two matching guns each. “Rooster, here’s your .40 S&Ws. Try not to drop ’em.”

Rooster flipped him off amiably, taking his goodies.

Viper continued to rummage in his bag. “Lessee… Bear, here’s your .44 magnum, but you say ‘make my day’ one more time, and I’m switching it out for a water pistol.”

Bear waited until he had the guns firmly in hand before growling, “Make my day,” in a very respectable Dirty Harry impersonation.

“Got anything in that black bag for me?” Cheeky asked hopefully.

Viper grinned again. “Would a Kel-Tec shotgun make you click your heels, Dorothy?”

“There’s no place like home, goddammit!” Cheeky took the shotgun, looking as happy as Ralphie had been getting his official Red Ryder.

It’s the little things in life, y’know?

Dragon cocked his head to one side. “Miss Parker, you have much experience with pistols?”

I gestured to my empty holster. “This used to contain a Ruger.”

He nodded and handed me a canvas shoulder pouch.

“There’s two Glocks in there with plenty of ammo. You shouldn’t have any problems—nine mil is pretty low recoil, and there’s no outside controls to mess with. The safety’s in the trigger. Just don’t touch it till you want to shoot something.”

Schweet…

He handed JT a similar bag and then turned back to me as if in an afterthought.

“Oh, yeah, one more thing. Turns out McCamey was a bit of a collector. Had some nice, high-priced items in there.” He went back to his bike and fished something out of one of the other bags, pulling out a highly polished katana and scabbard. “I understand you like to play with these. It ain’t no Hattori Hanzo, but it’ll do, dontcha think?” I stared wordlessly as he slid the blade back in its scabbard and set it in my hands.

It was way beyond the utilitarian blade I’d lost—like comparing a print to an original work of art. I was so stunned I could only manage a half-assed stammer by way of thanks, but I think he got the message.

“Let’s ride, people.” Dragon strode back to his bike.

“Hey!” I said suddenly. He stopped and turned back to me. “What about McCamey? Was he in there?”

Dragon grinned. “Part of him was.”

* * *

An anxious sea of Japanese sararimen and office ladies eyed the morning commuter train hungrily as it pulled into Kawasaki Station. When its doors slid open they rushed inside like samurai storming a castle. It took 3.75 seconds for the train to fill to capacity, and then the neatly uniformed, white-gloved station attendants nicknamed oshiya—“pushers”—began to politely shove additional commuters into the car, until no physical space remained, and the train sped on toward downtown Tokyo.

Another minor ocean of commuters lay in wait at Shinagawa Station as the same train pulled up, seven minutes and fifty-six seconds later. The train squealed to an ear-piercing stop and as the doors opened, the screech of the brakes was matched by the screams on the platform as the train disgorged a red, ragged tsunami wave of freshly-minted undead…

* * *

On Rapa Nui, the most remote island left on earth, Rano and Tikaroa picked their way among the tide pools, fishing spears in hand as they hunted for eels, sea snails, and crabs. On the cliffs above them, a line of monolithic heads stared balefully out upon the Pacific.

Rano failed in his pursuit of a little rock octopus, swearing colorfully in Spanish as it escaped, darting into open water. He shook his head as he watched it go. Another movement caught his eye further out in the waves. A dark spot moving slowly toward shore. Maybe a marine turtle?