Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (7 page)

A double tap. Two soft chugs from the suppressed sub gun. Eye
and forehead on the first Z. An implosion and a black dimple, separated by only
a millisecond—the former started its head spinning; the latter, centered
equidistant between brow and hairline, lifted the geriatric off of the ground.
The two nearly simultaneous impacts were followed at once by an aerated cloud
of gray matter that drifted to the ground with a wet patter.

Another perfect double tap. Temple and ear on the second
creature as it cornered a large, cross-shaped tombstone. The damage escaped
Cade’s notice because the creature had dropped quicker than his eye could track.
Faster than gravity by itself could tug on a falling human body. Terminal
velocity aided by two sizzling chunks of 4.6mm lead penetrators.

But the aftermath was evident. Gelatinous chunks of brain
painted the cross.
Nothing survivable
, Cade told himself as he left the
rest of the shamblers to figure out how to move around the newly-fallen
obstacles blocking their path.

Without a backward glance, he navigated the last two rows of
graves, finally emerging from between a pair of very large monuments to a
couple of long dead people.

The pink marble head stone on his left came up to just below
his sternum. It was the perfect height to lean on, allowing him to take the
weight from his bad ankle for a few precious seconds. He steadied his weapon,
drew a bead on a female first turn, and double tapped her in the forehead. As
the body collapsed, he unleashed a dozen rounds downrange, pausing slightly between
every other pull of the trigger to acquire a new target. He fired until the
bolt locked, and then with a fluidity gained from years of putting practice to
work dumped the mag and inserted a fresh one containing the final thirty rounds
for the MP7. By feel he charged the weapon, and then padded across the open
ground. He entered the shadow cast by the towering church, crabbed sideways through
the gate, and scooted under the ornate wrought iron archway.

The patina of dirt and moss accumulated over decades of
changing seasons had left the cemetery’s name—
Saint something or other,
which was spelled out in an arc of flowing script atop the gate— mostly
unreadable to his military-trained eye. He had always been partial to the simple
blocky font
The Big Green Machine
—the United States Army to the
layperson—labeled everything with, and though he couldn’t tell whom the graveyard’s
anonymous saintly namesake had been, he was one hundred and ten percent certain
the man would be spinning over in his grave if he knew the undead were treading
on this sacred ground.

Dispelling the thoughts of who’s or what’s pertaining to the
church’s history he turned left, hobbled a number of yards in shadow, made another
left, and then shot a glance over his shoulder at the trailing creatures. The
carrion bottleneck that formed as they tried forcing their way through the gate
in unison would have been a funny sight if this were some stupid Super Bowl
commercial or one of those horror comedies that popped up every so often at the
local Cineplex, back when zombies were but figments of someone’s vivid
imagination and made real by a few talented makeup artists. But this was no
film shoot. There was no crew. No director. No sandwich wagon waiting to feed
the extras. This was life and death, not only for him but also for the men in
the Ghost Hawk, and he derived no pleasure from watching the clumsy creatures—wanting
nothing more than to strip the flesh from his bones—struggling with the
simplest of obstacles. In fact, he was grateful for the diversion that had allowed
him to gain a few more precious feet of separation.

Cade reached the southwest corner of the cemetery with the
dead close behind and made a tactical decision. Before covering the open ground
to Jasper’s dusty truck, once again he took a knee and emptied half of the
little MP7’s final extended magazine into the staggering clutch. Putrid bodies
thudded to the dirt as the initial fifteen rounds, rocketing at 2,400 feet per
second, found undead flesh, bone, and brain. The next flurry of controlled head
shots added more dead Zs to the trail of twisted corpses outside of the fence
line.
Three left
, he thought to himself as he unclipped the smoking
weapon and dropped it near his feet.

Now free of the added weight of the MP7 he was able to move
a little faster. Shielding his eyes from the sun, he cast a quick glance toward
the helicopter. The simple fact that the perimeter around the downed craft was
clear of walking dead told him his ruse had worked. He flicked his eyes back to
the still-shambling cadavers and tore the Glock from his shoulder holster.
Deciding he’d only use the unsuppressed pistol as a last resort, he held his
fire and commenced a slow speed dash for the safety of the truck.

After gingerly traversing the minefield strewn with sun
ripened-bodies and bits and pieces of rotor blade and fuselage, he reached the pickup.
Dizzy and winded and sweating profusely—but relieved his grueling ordeal was
about to pay off—he grasped the handle, wrenched the door open, and flung his
body headlong onto the sagging, burgundy vinyl bench seat. Without a backward
glance he hinged up and slammed the thin-skinned door home, an action
accomplished mere seconds before the ghouls made its acquaintance.

Sharp reports of ashen palms slapping the window were followed
instantly by a trio of sneering faces. Teeth clicking against glass, the insatiable
Zs got an eyeful of the meat inside and instantly began to head-butt the
driver’s side window. Cade couldn’t believe what he was seeing as the trio
stepped back and flung themselves against the vehicle. Hollow thuds resounded
as each new impact caused thick black fluid to flow from their pulped noses. Inexplicably
they seemed to be cooperating, coordinating and delivering each blow
simultaneously with a vigor that sent a chill up his spine. He thought back to
the multitude of times he’d encountered the walking dead since Z Day and
couldn’t remember having ever seen them exhibit such determined, purpose-driven
behavior. Sure he’d seen them
accidentally
, through sheer numbers, blast
through a plate glass window. He’d been in an old farmhouse when a large group
of dead knocked a four-inch-thick oak door and its casing and door jamb asunder
as if it were constructed of Styrofoam. From inside the Ghost Hawk in a steady hundred
foot hover he’d witnessed a sight he’d never forget, as the Denver horde—which
had been traveling down the freeway packed tightly several hundred thousand
strong—tossed SUVs, passenger cars, and multi-ton fire trucks around like plastic
toys. It had struck him at the time because of the way they moved, like army
ants on a mission.
And if they
are
becoming aware
, he thought
grimly,
even one iota, and then start hunting in the kind of numbers that were
present on I-25 that day—then the remaining pockets of humanity worldwide are
fucked
. As the dead banged against the window again and again, he asked himself
a single question he hoped would never come true:
Were they learning?
As
if his thoughts had been tapped, one of the ghouls stopped assaulting the glass
and turned its milky eyes and undivided attention from him to something on the outside
of the door. Blood turning to ice, Cade cast his gaze left and down and noted a
subtle movement to the interior door handle. Just a halfhearted jiggle, but
enough to nearly stop his heart. Then he heard a clicking noise identical to
the sound the latch had made seconds ago when the door slammed shut behind him.

He lashed out with his left elbow, popped the rounded locking
knob down, and groped the steering column searching for the keys.
Way to go
Jasper
, he thought, a thin smile curling his lip.

Dangling from the ignition was a purple rabbit’s foot
attached by a beaded chain to a small complement of silver keys—the most
important of which was still in the ignition right where the man said it would
be.

“Let’s see if any of you have learned the fine art of the
duck,” he said, turning the engine over. The engine roared to life and
instantly the male first turn that had been worrying the door handle reacted by
flinging its arms over the top of the cab.
Perfect
, thought Cade as he
powered the window down a few fingers width and stuck the compact Glock’s
business-end into the opening. “Who’s hungry?” he asked, chiding the flailing
creature in a sing-song voice. It took a handful of seconds, but the time spent
waiting and inhaling the eye-watering stench up close and personal paid off as the
quick learner
moved its open maw near the flat black muzzle.

Cade did two things at once: he plunged the pistol into the
ghoul’s throat and then twisted his wrist clockwise in order to angle the
barrel up so the discharged round had no chance of reaching the helicopter. He
caressed the trigger twice and winced as the Z’s eyes momentarily bulged from
their sockets, then retracted and followed the rest of the cranial contents out
the gaping exit wound in the rear of its skull. Contained within the cab, the back-to-back
reports were deafening. One of the spent shells struck the metal edge of the
visor then ricocheted back across Cade’s face, grazing his nose before disappearing
behind the bench seat. The other followed the curve of the windshield and disappeared
down the window defroster. Ears ringing, he pulsed the window all the way down
and with the Glock in a two-fisted grip moved the weapon’s muzzle to the left, firing
several more shots into the remaining pair of creatures. Watching them fall, he
powered the window shut, slammed the transmission into drive, and hauled the
wheel hard to the right. Bouncing over arms and legs and small pieces of debris
from the wreck, he worked at loading some G-forces to the tail end of the
truck. Slowly but surely the stiffened bodies Jasper had been hauling made the
inevitable slide from the truck’s bed onto terra firma. He flicked his gaze to
the rearview and watched as the bodies of two full-sized adults and what had to
be nearly half a dozen children-sized cadavers tumbled out and bounced and
skidded, kicking up puffs of ochre dust in the process. Straightening the wheel,
he said a prayer for the family and aimed the pickup for the opening in the
nearby fence. Barely wide enough for one vehicle, the gravel access road
splitting the graveyard in two stretched north nearly all the way to the church’s
steps. If Cade had to venture a guess, the road had been used primarily to
bring in occupied caskets and the digging equipment necessary to inter them.

As he nosed the Chevy through the gap in the fence, the mirror
on the passenger side folded back with a screech and a bang. Ignoring the noise
and the temporary loss of a good portion of his situational awareness, Cade craned
his neck, glanced over and spotted Cross and Jasper atop the black chopper.
Each man had a hold of one of Gaines’ gloved hands and together they were
slowly lowering the fallen operator’s body into the outstretched arms of Hicks
and Lopez.

As the truck swayed left and right on tired springs, Cade
slalomed around the pallid corpses lining both sides of the road. Once parallel
to the chopper, he spun the wheel right and bumped over the firm ground between
two rows of headstones. There was a bang and the right front fender groaned
when he failed to split the goalposts and a centuries-old cement marker disintegrated
in a spray of pebbles and sand. Cade winced at the transgression but stayed the
course.

 “I’m retrieving Tice’s body,” Lopez said over the comms.

“Be careful, Lowrider,” Cade said sharply. “One of the Zs
almost got me. Seemed like the bastard planned to ambush me. Oh, and while
you’re back there keep an eye out for my backpack.”

“Copy that,” replied Lopez as he looped around the chopper’s
nose.

“Someone give me a situation report,” Cade called out to
anyone who was listening.

“I didn’t see your ruck ... but you were correct, Captain,” replied
Lopez. “I just dropped a lurker behind the helo. Collecting the Spook’s body
now. Back at the chopper in one mike.”

“Copy that. Pulling up now,” Cade called back as he ground
the getaway vehicle to a stop a good distance from the wreckage, where a stray
spark or its hot catalytic converter had no chance of touching off the fuel. Head
on a swivel, he slammed the shifter into park and set the brake.

Suddenly Cross’s voice overrode everything. His words were
clipped and to the point like he was reporting a threat to the President’s life—big
important life-changing words delivered in a controlled, easy-to-comprehend
diction. “Hurry up, gentlemen. I’m looking at a herd of Zs coming our way.”

“Looked like only thirty or forty to me,” replied Lopez
between labored breaths.

“I know crowds,” said Cross, who was still standing atop
Jedi One-One. “And what I see is not thirty or forty ... there are at least two
hundred on the move.”

“Two hundred Zs,” Cade said incredulously. “From which
direction?”

“They’re vectoring in from the interstate,” answered Cross.
“Jasper says they’ve been moving between Sioux Falls and Rapid City. Says they
pace the road and normally don’t venture into Draper unless there’s a reason. And
the helo going down was plenty of
reason
. I estimate we have five mikes,
tops
, until the lead element is upon us.”

That gives us three if we’re going to transit the gravel
road ahead of them
, Cade thought to himself. He cast the miserable thought
aside and shouldered open the slime-covered door. He tried swinging his feet
over the raised channel and nearly passed out as a lightning bolt of pain
flared in the ankle, that now, even in the general’s size twelve boot, felt
like a bowling ball stuffed into a marble bag. “I’m no help,” he gasped, beads
of sweat cascading from his brow. “Ankle’s shot. You’ll have to bring the
bodies to the truck by yourselves. I only have a few dozen rounds left so
double
time
it.”