Zompoc Survivor: Odyssey (18 page)

“Rafe, they stopped,” the CB blared. “Get behind ‘em and go for the truck. Kill the driver or shoot the tires and engine.”

“Fire both guns,” Armstrong said. “Light the side of the road up.” Overhead, the M2 and the grenade launcher pounded away, and from the small window in the hatch, I could see a string of explosions along the side of the road going toward our rear. An orange blossom of flame went up as a round found something flammable and set it off. Orders flew and we surged forward. Up ahead, I could see the trucks back up and try to retreat, but Armstrong wasn’t having any of it. Our gunner blew the lead truck on the right into oblivion with a trio of forty millimeter rounds, then punched a series of holes in the one behind it with the machinegun.

“Stagecoach Three, you’re in the middle,” McGregor said over the radio. “Stagecoach Two, you still have Tracer.” The diesel rumbled as we got up to speed and I watched the four pyres of the would-be bandits as we passed them. I shook my head, amazed at how humans were still preying on each other in spite of the greater threat of the undead.

We followed a county road around Custer, then got back on 16 and followed it west, crossing into Wyoming by nine A.M. It took us out of our way by about fifty miles, but once we rounded a curve in Newcastle and turned south onto US 85, the next town was eighty miles due south of us, with nothing but straight, flat and empty road between us and it. Around noon, we hit the edge of Niobara county and saw a hand painted sign under the county limit sign. “All survivors must report to the Niobara Safe Zone upon entering county. Proceed to Niobara Women’s Correctional Center IMMEDIATELY!” it read. Below it, in smaller letters, was the line “By order of President Shaw.” We pulled to a stop a few feet from the sign and Armstrong leaned forward.

“Stagecoach, looks like we have a bunch of folks backing the wrong horse,” he said into his mic.

“I see that,” McGregor’s voice came back over the main radio. “Stewart, I want you to scout the way ahead. The only thing that matters is getting our package to her destination, you clear on that?”

“I got it,” I said.

“Better you than me,” Landry said as I grabbed my M4. Once I was outside, it took a few minutes to get my bike off the back of the truck. Amy joined me as I was putting the M4 in its scabbard.

“I should be going with you,” she said.

“You’re the only other person who can feel when infected are nearby,” I said. “And, your mother would kill me if you didn’t make it.”

“You can’t keep using that excuse forever, you know.”

“It’s still working. But, the other reason is more important. Plus, none of these folks is going to let a teenager go into a potential fight.” I tucked the USGS map McGregor had given me into the clear section on top of the tank bag and gave him a brief wave before I turned back to Amy. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back pretty quick.”

“You better be,” she said. Before she could say anything else, I hit the gas and headed out. The land around me was still green in places, and the rolling hills broke up the horizon a little. On the plus side, if there was anyone coming my way, I was going to see them a mile off. Of course, the other side of that was also true: I was going to be highly visible to anyone out here. For about twenty minutes, it was pure countryside, with surprisingly few cars on the road. Like a lot of the areas I’d been traveling through lately, though, Wyoming was sparsely populated. Even this near a town, traffic would have been thin at any point, to say nothing of an all-out evacuation. As I got further from the caravan, the constant nag in the back of my head eased, which told me they’d decided to drag the Alpha Zombie with us, but it also meant there weren’t any nearby, which was a big relief.

Niobara City came into view when I was about a mile or two out, settled in a low spot surrounded by hills. The artificially green grounds of a cemetery were just starting to brown up as I passed the city limits sign that proclaimed Niobara City’s population at fifteen hundred forty seven. A propane seller and a garage marked the first actual buildings in town, then I was into town proper. An overpass loomed ahead of me, and I slowed to a stop as I near the summit. On the other side was a road block of sorts, two cars, two trucks, a handful of motorcycles and a set of sawhorses set across the roadway. Ten men stood behind the wooden barriers, all of them sporting civilian hunting rifles.

“Stagecoach, this is Road Runner,” I said into my radio mic as I pulled the binoculars out of the tank bag and focused on the men below me. “I’ve been spotted. The locals have a checkpoint on the main road into town. Looks like my job description just changed.” Below me, the men were pointing at me and gesturing for me to come down. I looked left and right to see what was visible from my vantage point, then looked forward again.

“Copy on the road block, Road Runner,” McGregor said. “What do you mean about the job description?”

“My new job is going to be a distraction. I’ll meet up with you about five miles south of town in about an hour.”

“Negative, Road Runner. Get out of there and we’ll find an alternate route.”

“They’ve seen me,” I said as I lowered the binoculars and waved at the men. A single gunshot rang out and asphalt peppered my leg as the round hit a few feet away from me. “If I rabbit now, they’re going to chase me.” I cringed away from where the shot hit, and one of the men snatched the rifle from the man who had fired, then stepped out from behind the barricade and started walking toward me. I set the mic on open transmit and rode down toward the man, meeting him a few yards away from the rest.

“The last son of a bitch that shot at me is rotting on the side of the road about a hundred miles from here!” I said as I pulled my helmet off.

“I’m sorry about that,” the lead man said as he closed the distance to me. He was tall and lean, with weathered features that looked like they’d seen years of wind and sun. He wore a brown jacket and jeans, with a cowboy hat that looked like it had seen almost as much time outside as its owner had. He had a hunting rifle slung on his left shoulder and a Sam Browne belt that sported a pistol and several magazine pouches. “Name’s Miles Davis,” he said as he reached out with one gloved hand. His grip was firm, but I got the feeling it wasn’t as hard as he could make it.

“Nick Vincent,” I said, using a pen name I’d considered.

“Well, Mr. Vincent, you mind if I ask why you aren’t already in one of the Safe Zones?” he drawled.

“Because, as far as I know, there aren’t any in North Dakota,” I said with a smile. “I could ask the same of you, seeing as how the nearest one I can think of is in Colorado or Missouri.”

“Not any more. The nearest Safe Zone is right here,” he said proudly.

“I saw your sign, but a board and some paint don’t make you a Safe Zone.” I watched his face as I said that, but he just smiled.

“President declared us ‘bout a week ago. He’s been all over the radio with the updated list. We also have our credentials, signed by the man himself. I can promise you, son, you’re about as safe as you can get now.” He gestured toward the row of men, one of whom was holding up a set of papers.

“You mind if I have a look at those?” I said as I dismounted the bike and started pushing it. He started back toward the others with me, and I took the set of papers from the man holding them up. Sure enough, it looked official, complete with seals embossed on the paper. Another man gestured to Miles, and he left me with the man who’d been carrying the official documentation.

“How’d they get this to you?” I asked.

“Air drop,” the man said. This guy was wearing almost the same outfit, with the same kind of belt and holster. Only his jacket was different, a wool-lined tan leather. “If we need medicine or ammo or anything like that, they send a drone to drop it off. Hell, about the only thing that didn’t come by drone is Agent Coffey over there.” He leaned in and said softly, “And as far as I’m concerned, they can have his ass back. Worthless sonofabitch don’t do nothing but complain and eat.” I laughed at that and looked toward the man he had gestured at. Most of the men wore variations of the same rancher’s outfit, with baseball caps or cowboy hats. Coffey wore a long black duster and a wool watch cap. A gust of wind blew the bottom of his duster to the side and I could see a tactical holster on his right leg. He was showing Miles something and pointing at me, but Miles was shaking his head. He turned to look over his shoulder at me, then turned back to Coffey with a disbelieving look on his face.

“He looks pissed about somethin’,” I said.

“He’s always lookin’ for some wanted person or another,” the man beside me said. “Hell, he went through everyone in town trying to find people in that stupid Most Wanted deck of his.”

“I don’t see any infected,” I said as the exchange between Coffey and Davis started to get more heated.

“There weren’t that many to start off,” he said. “We set up the speakers over at the fair grounds and started playing music as loud as we could, shooting off fireworks at night to get them all over that way. After that, it was a turkey shoot, know what I mean?” I was about to make a comment when Coffey unslung his rifle. From forty or fifty yards away, I could see that it was some variant of an M4, all tacti-cooled out with more junk than he’d ever need.

“You!” he shouted. “Evan Reynolds! Hands in the air where I can see them!” I blinked as I tried to process what he was saying. Who in the hell was Evan Reynolds?

“I told you,” I called back to him as I held my hands out to the side, “my name’s Nick Vincent. Let me get my ID out of the tank bag here.” I reached out with my left hand and let go of the official papers. For a split second, everyone’s eyes followed the white fluttering pages as the wind caught them. My right hand hit the electric start and the bike roared to life as I straddled it, and I was mobile. I heard gunshots behind me as I leaned over the handlebars and yelled into the mic at my shoulder, “Stagecoach, go!”

When I looked behind me a few seconds later, I could see a couple of men on motorcycles already pulling out behind me. Coffey was leading the way on a black street bike. He was pulling ahead of the others and gaining on me pretty fast. I waited until he was only a few yards away from me before I turned hard to my right. Tires squealed in my six as Coffey braked, and I could see him straightening his bike and trying to gun the engine to catch up to me. My next turn was a left, and the another, which left me racing back the way I’d come. After the first block, I saw what I needed and turned left again at the next, coming out behind the rest of the local militia as they passed. Coffey followed, gaining again as we stayed on the straight-away, leaving the rest of the men with him far behind. After a few blocks, the road came to a T, and I could see the overpass I’d started the chase from. I took the left turn and followed the road as it curved around and passed over the railroad tracks. After the first building I passed on my right, I leaned hard into a right turn and went off-road, heading for a low hill I’d seen from the overpass. Coffey swung in behind me and gunned his bike as we raced toward the hill. He pulled up on my right, and I twisted the throttle a little more. His bike easily paced mine, and he turned his head toward me to give me a triumphant smile. I looked toward the hill and goosed the bike again. His head turned and he leaned forward over his handle bars as he poured on even more speed.

He hit the hill a second before I did, and we went airborne. A split second too late, he saw what I’d maneuvered him into, and I heard him scream. If he’d been a local, I would have felt bad.

On the other side of the hill were several low mounds of gravel and dirt in a straight line. My jump took me a few feet to one side of them, but he had jumped right at them, and there was no way he was going to land without crashing. His back tire hit the top of one and his bike flipped before it slammed into the one on the other side with a sickening crunch. I skidded to a stop and shut the bike off, then ran to the wreckage.

Coffey’s head was twisted at an unhealthy angle, and his eyes were glassy and blank. I heard his radio squawking on his bike, and the sound of vehicles came from the west of us as I squatted down next to his body. Most of his gear was standard stuff for the guys I’d seen posing as Homeland Security: black tactical gear, most of it comparable to military issue. He had a Glock 31 and three spare mags in the tactical holster and a map case slung across his body. Most of it was of no interest to me, though his radio was an intel windfall and I unsnapped the map case. I grabbed his personal radio and checked his pockets, turning up an official looking government ID for Travis Coffey, and the deck of cards the local man had been talking about. The card that was facing up was for Evan Reynolds, a sour faced man who bore only passing resemblance to me. The card ID him as a follower of the Sovereign Citizen movement, though I doubted he was associated with them.

“Really?” I asked as I held the card up. “You mistook me for this guy? I look twice as good as he does.” My next goal was what was left of his bike. The radio had survived relatively intact, and I paused for a moment. It was a model I’d never seen before, slimmer than most of the military issue comm systems I’d used. I grabbed it and pulled the mount it had been in as well, trusting that I’d be able to remember how it was wired.

“Road Runner, this is Stagecoach, we’re clear of town. Heading to rendezvous point.” McGregor’s voice in my ear was a stark reminder that there was still more to do.

“Roadrunner copies, Stagecoach,” I said softly.

“Agent Coffey, this is Davis, do you read me?” I heard Miles’ voice come over both of the confiscated radios. As quickly as I could, I grabbed the assault rifle magazines from Coffey’s vest and went to my bike, then drew the Five-seveN. When Miles repeated his call, I put a round through the wrecked bike’s tank, holstered the pistol and pulled my survival tin from my vest. One of the wind-proof matches caught as I dragged it along the strip of sandpaper glued to the top, and I flicked it toward the growing puddle of gas before I started the bike and headed toward the overpass. The gas caught and the tank blew as I raced under the bridge. The radio went wild for a few minutes after that as they closed in on the rising column of smoke. Finally, Miles’ voice came over the air.