Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (53 page)

“This is too good for you, Bishop.”

“You don’t have the balls to kill a man,” he managed to say
through a mouthful of crimson froth.

Even over the ringing in her ears, Jamie heard the backdoor
come off its hinges. Undeterred, she hissed, “I just grew some, asshole.”
Fighting off the dying man’s one good arm, starting with Logan and finishing
with Jordan, she drew the keen-edged kitchen knife from one ear to the other, slowly
whispering the names of the three who had fallen beside her at the quarry.

“Drop it,” called a stocky Hispanic man clad head to toe in
camouflage and Velcro and body armor. He trained a stubby machine gun on her
and repeated the order, louder and more forcefully. Then, still glaring at her,
he talked to someone out of sight over his high tech communications gear.

After seeing the American flag on the man’s uniform, Jamie
dropped the knife and inched away from Bishop’s pale corpse. Immediately a
second man dressed all in black with a weapon to match helped her to her feet.
He turned her head and checked her for injuries. A second later he nodded to
the Hispanic soldier and whispered near her ear, “You’re going to be OK.”

Shaking slightly, Jamie shot a long nod at Carson and asked
the soldier in black matter-of-factly, “Is he going to die?”

Having just zip-tied the blonde mercenary’s hands behind his
back, the Hispanic soldier rolled him over. He stuck a gloved finger into the
hole in the crotch of Carson’s blood-soaked pants. Grimacing, he examined the
other more visible gunshot wounds and finally said, “He’s got a few minutes.
Ten max.”

Chapter 86

Across the lake, Cade took two strips of what looked like
reflective tape from his pack. He peeled the backing to expose the adhesive and
stuck one strip to Foley’s chest over his heart and then another on his back.
Lev and Duncan said nothing. Both peeled the backing and stuck a strip to their
BDUs over their hearts.

Daymon snugged on his helmet and shot Cade a quizzical look.

Flipping his NVG’s over his eyes, Cade answered, “Infrared
reflective GloTape. It’s already on our helmets ... the rest is for good
measure. We wouldn’t want our friend Foley to be mistaken for a bad guy and
take a bullet and buy the farm before we get a chance to interrogate him.”

Foley felt his stomach flop as he was herded out of the
house with the sharp barrel of a gun against his spine.

Between the recent sunset and the moon’s inevitable rise,
without any ambient light from street lights of nearby McCall, the night sky
had gone inky black. Listening to the distant sounds of battle—and kind of
disappointed he was missing out—Cade flipped down his late-gen night vision
goggles and descended the stairs as quickly as his ankle would allow. Once at
the bottom and standing on the cement parking pad, he pulled two identical
items from a pocket. About the size and weight of a double pack of Wrigley’s
chewing gum, the devices, made from high impact plastic, had a flat bottom and
an elongated clear plastic dome on top.

After flicking a switch and peeling a strip of backing paper
from each one, Cade stretched tall and placed one atop the Jeep, centered on
the roof sheet metal just aft of the windshield. As he placed the second device
on the roof near the rear hatch, Duncan hopped in the passenger seat and Lev
and Daymon bookended Foley in the backseat.

As expected, rendered in bright yellowish-green as seen
through Cade’s goggles, there was a flare of stark-white light from the
overhead dome when the doors hinged open. Working quickly to extinguish the
light, Cade got behind the wheel and used his Gerber to pry the plastic lens
away and then dug out the tiny bulb with its sharp point.

Reacting instantly, the goggles adjusted and the brilliant
corona subsided; he could see the dash and controls presented in a dozen
varying shades of green.
So far so good
. In his ear bud he could hear
brief snippets of conversation, the practiced commands and calls of a
well-honed team presumably clearing one of the houses across the lake.

He started the truck up and asked Foley: “
Is anyone we
encounter going to recognize this rig?”
A nod from the bald man registered
in the rearview as Cade J-turned out of the driveway and shifted into Drive. In
less than a minute, driving south, lights out, they were approaching the
T-junction. Sweeping his gaze right, Cade noticed the gate some distance away.
He also saw the logjam of death pressing up against it. Bright eyes in hollowed
sockets, all the more evil-looking through the NVG’s optics, swept left in
unison as the monsters detected the exhaust note of the approaching vehicle.

“That’s some Boris Karloff shit right there,” stated Daymon.
“All green and glassy-eyed.”

Without prompting, Foley proffered, “Turn left here.”

“Think the gate’s going to hold?” asked Duncan as Cade took
the left at speed.

Foley said, “Not for long. We have standing orders from
Bishop to cull them on sight.”

“Not everyone follows orders,” muttered Daymon.

Remembering the vision of the two men Bishop had gunned down
earlier and hearing their cries in his head as they died, Foley said, “Anyone
caught not following orders were made examples of ... either crucified or shot
on sight by Bishop or Carson.”

“Carson?” asked Cade.

“He likes to say he’s into
‘procurement’
... supplies
and women. Especially women.”

“I hope your D-boys roll him up,” said Duncan.

“Me too,” Cade agreed, meeting the older man’s gaze.

The Jeep cut through the darkness under a thick canopy of
trees. On their left vacant houses flashed by, the lake beyond appearing as
green slivers of light between them.

They encountered no resistance travelling the curving arc of
road between the roadblock near the peninsula and the first few houses making
up the lake front compound where fires were raging and a mopping-up operation
was underway.

Then a hundred yards from the action and two houses removed
from the target house they encountered the security perimeter, where a trio of
Army Rangers wielding M-203 grenade-launcher-equipped automatic weapons lit
them up with what seemed like a million candlepower light.

Shielding his eyes in front of the goggles with one hand and
holding the wheel tight with the other, Cade braked hard, bringing the Jeep to
a crunching halt a dozen feet short of colliding with both bullets and
vehicles.

“Hands out where we can see them,” shouted one of the
soldiers whom Cade could not see.

Cade flipped up the goggles and then with both gloved hands
poking into the night air and a light like a locomotive’s blinding him,
suddenly sensed a presence on his left. Then he heard: “
Name?”

“Cade Grayson ... United States Army, Retired.”

“Wyatt?”

“Affirmative.”

The soldier pressed, “Ground call sign?”

“Anvil.”

Though Cade couldn’t see it, the Ranger nodded. Then he
said, “And the civilians?”

“They’re capable.”

The Ranger said nothing to that. A few seconds passed as he
walked around the vehicle. Finishing the lap, he returned to the window, the
light flicked off and he said, “IR beacons ... nice touch, Grayson.”

Cade said, “Didn’t want the SOAR boys in the Chinooks to
open us up like a tin can.”

The Ranger, a first sergeant whose name tape said
Fleishman
,
turned and over his shoulder said, “Follow me in.”

Cade followed behind the sergeant at a walking pace, then
wheeled the Jeep up to the rear of the target house where he was met by a face
he knew very well. “Lopez! How’s it hanging, amigo?”

“Longer than yours, Wyatt.”

The two men embraced. Cade noted the captain’s tabs on the
smaller operator’s collar. “Captain Lopez. Has a nice ring to it. Congrats,” he
said, nodding.

Wearing a wide smile, Lopez crossed himself and pointed
skyward.

In full understanding, Cade gestured towards the lake house
and asked, “Cross inside?”

Still beaming, Lopez tilted his helmeted head in the same
direction. “He’s in there ... prepping Bishop for his body bag.”

Cade’s brows crowded together. “Prepping? I thought I only
winged him.”

“You’ll see. First I want to fill you in on the broken
arrows. Man, Wyatt ... you were right. Where the G6 goes so goes Spartan. Funny
thing is they thought they’d concealed the truck. But you and I both know
there’s no hiding from a KH-12 and the keen eye of one of Nash’s determined
imagery techs.”

With the distant flames casting flickering shadows at their
boots, both men said in unison, “Or Nash.”

Smiling and shaking his head, Cade shifted his gaze to the
olive-drab tractor-trailer. He let his eyes wander over the dozens of corpses,
Spartan mercenaries who had fought hard but had ultimately paid the price for
their betrayal. After the long pause, he said, “Bishop should have known he
couldn’t hide that truck for long. Wonder why he even tried.”

Lopez shrugged. “Hubris? That’s my best guess.” Then the
smile returned. “You shoulda seen Nash, though. She was giddy as hell that you
came through ... said she held
you
to your word.”

Ignoring that, Cade asked, “Are the nukes inside?”

Shaking his head side-to-side, Lopez conceded, “I don’t
know. The Geiger counter thinks so. But we’ll have eyes on the inside in a
couple of mikes.” He went on and was in the middle of bringing Cade up to speed
on a couple of previous missions and the status of the Fuentes antiserum when a
Chinook, drowning out their conversation, flew low and slow, passing directly
overhead.

Chapter 87

From his seat in the thundering Spec-Ops-configured MH-47
Chinook being piloted by a highly skilled SOAR aviator, combat engineer and
explosive ordnance expert Army First Lieutenant Larry Eckels peered out the
port-side window as the lake below, black as polished obsidian, passed by
slowly against the Chinook’s counterclockwise orbit. Through his NVGs he saw
flames from the helicopters and wheeled vehicles burning near the north gate,
casting ghostly clawlike shadows across the newly graded tract of land. And
beyond the gate, no doubt drawn by the firefights and explosions and glowing an
eerie green in his goggles was a spectral army of the dead, swaying back and
forth as they marched nearer.

Having had his fill of the destruction brought on by Delta’s
lightning-fast sneak attack he shifted his gaze right as the pilot maneuvered
on approach and instantly recognized the squat tractor still hitched to the
squared-off trailer parked amongst the tall pines, its metal skin showing up a
slightly lighter shade of green and contrasting against the darker forested
backdrop.

Near Eckels’ feet, Hudson, his German Shepherd trained in
explosives detection, yawned and looked up expectantly.

“Soon, boy,” said the recently promoted lieutenant as the
MH-47 banked sharply and bisected the lake west to east on approach. Then over
the comms he reminded the chalk of Army Rangers under his command of the
sensitive nature of the cargo inside the trailer.

The dual-rotor bird slowed and Eckels’s stomach visited his
throat as the pilot flared and said, “Target is at our two-o’clock. Wheels down
in five, four, three, two ...”

At
‘one’
there was a soft hiss aft as the flight
engineer actuated the hydraulics and started the rear ramp on its downward
journey. A curl of wood smoke infiltrated the cabin first thing. “Go, go, go,”
shouted a Ranger sergeant as the thirteen eager soldiers from the 75th Ranger
Regiment poured forth, and like spokes on a wagon wheel each claimed his
position, carbines locked and loaded—to a man fully ready to meet any
resistance with the force necessary.

With the sonic shriek of the twin turbines diminishing and
fresh from turning the Pueblo horde away from Schriever, Eckels ducked his head
and hustled down the ramp, Hudson at his heel.

Instantly a barrage of different odors assaulted Eckels’s
nose: jet exhaust, cordite, burning flesh, and the ever-present underlying
stench of death—a harsh reminder of the new world in which he was living.

After witnessing the twin-rotor behemoth glide in and settle
neatly, Cade beckoned the four other men from the Jeep and over the diminishing
turbine whine introduced them to Lopez one at a time. When he was finished, he
turned and they all followed the stocky Delta captain into what he’d already
described as a ‘
charnel house
.’

Which it was, Cade quickly found after nearly slipping and
falling in the Lake Erie-sized pool of blood painting the dining room floor.
Lying prostrate in the coppery smelling fluid, his face already gone slack, was
Ian Bishop, whose presence was infinitely smaller in death. Cade knelt and
rolled the corpse to the left to inspect his handiwork. The entry wound between
Bishop’s right bicep and scapula was torn open completely, a mess of jagged
bone and cartilage. Up front, left of his sternum from Cade’s perspective, the
exit wound sprouted a crimson and white bouquet of shredded flesh and feathery
lung tissue. Strangely, Bishop’s left shirt sleeve had been cut off cleanly,
revealing a fresh bloodless crater where a cantaloupe-sized oval of flesh had
been excised from the shoulder. Finally, craning over, Cade rotated the
corpse’s head and saw the ultimate cause of death—a second mouth smiling out at
him, severed muscle and sinew and yellowed trachea glistening under the
artificial light cast by Adam Cross’s head lamp.

“Whatcha got there?” Cade said, trying to find a face behind
the glare.

Unfolding the blood-soaked length of camouflage fabric,
Cross revealed his prize—or rather—Bishop’s posthumous punishment. There,
cradled in his palms atop the blood-soaked fabric, was the missing plug of flesh,
stark white, and tattooed on it permanently in black ink, a Budweiser—the SEAL
symbol consisting of an eagle clutching in its claws a U.S. Navy-style anchor,
trident, and flintlock pistol. “He never deserved it,” said the former Navy
SEAL. “In my opinion he was never one of my brothers.”