Riker's Apocalypse, page 7
Oh, how he wished the Romero virus’s spread hadn’t reached Miami so quickly. What with the beach and the warm water, not to mention all the fine women in their skimpy bikinis, he could have stayed at Villa Jasmine all winter—zombie apocalypse be damned.
Finished lashing the barrels together, Vern said, “Shorty told me about the Rolex. How’d it go over when you gave it to Lia?”
Riker said nothing.
Incredulous, Vern said, “You didn’t give it to her last night?” He shook his head. “George Bernard Shaw was right … youth is most definitely wasted on the young.”
Riker looked at Shorty, let his gaze linger, then returned his attention to the inquisitionist. “He told you?”
“He didn’t behave like he was divulging a state secret. And it didn’t seem like an act of sabotage. Seemed as if he was just looking to make small talk with me. I think he’s still trying to navigate foreign waters. Find his place in the scheme of things at your place.”
Riker exhaled. “I’ve always been afraid of rejection. I’ll probably just leave it lying around. Somewhere she’s most likely to stumble upon it. Maybe I’ll put it on the table next to that damn radio she’s tethered to.”
“Then deny you know anything about it? That’s a pretty chicken shit move.”
I didn’t ask you, Riker thought. Out loud, he said, “Do you really think any of those caches are worth the side trip to check out?”
“You familiar with the Law of Economy?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell.”
“Occam’s razor?”
Riker nodded.
“Same thing, basically.”
Riker made a face. “So far, I haven’t been successful when applying it.”
“I think you and Tara stumbled onto something special in Trinity House and the Zulu slash Lazarus bunker. Considering the times we’re living in, all that’s out here working against us, discounting those black dots would be criminal.”
“That windfall came at a great cost.” Riker paused. “We lost both parents. I’d give up all of it to have them back.”
No stranger to loss, Vern said, “I get it. But think of it this way: The money they left you and Tara is them taking care of you two from the grave. Honor them by making full use of it.”
All the woo woo Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey stuff was way too much for Riker to process at the moment. That Vern thought the side trips would be worth the time and expended fuel was enough for now. In fact, a simple yes would have sufficed.
“Rotters coming in from the road,” Shorty called. “We’re leaving soon, right?”
Riker flashed a thumbs-up.
Hefting his stubby Shockwave, Shorty called back, “I got ‘em. Pick me up on the road.”
“Will do,” Riker hollered.
Waving that he understood, Shorty turned on his heel and started walking the drive.
He wasn’t too worried about the man going it solo. Shorty was a survivor. Riker had seen the man come out of a scrape with nary a scratch more times than he could count. It was as if he had a whole host of Guardian Angels looking over him.
The noise from the shotgun discharging was of no concern to Riker, either. They’d be well on their way before the reports drew them any additional attention. The only other argument, one Riker used often to stem Tara’s desire to go to the gun first, was the finite supply of ammunition. But that really wasn’t his problem. Shorty had come loaded for bear. Crisscrossed over the man’s black Trans Am jacket was a pair of ammunition bandoliers. Both leather items were laden with several different types of shotgun shells. And according to Shorty, there were plenty more of them stashed in the EarthRoamer. He’d scored the vehicle after shooting his way out of a poorly planned ambush. From the way he told the story, the ambushers had been way out of their league. They paid dearly for it, too.
The zombies were crowded into a loose knot, maybe two deep and three across, and just arriving at the T where the drive and road met. If any of them happened to be a Bolt, it would have already burst from the pack and be barreling straight for the approaching meat.
Climbing into the Shelby, Riker snapped his seatbelt home and fired the 6.2-liter V-8. Only when Vern had taken his seat and was situated—belt clicked, door closed and locked, MP5 sub gun stowed safely on the seat beside him—did Riker get the rig moving.
After flicking his gaze to the rearview and verifying that the load was secure in the trailer, Riker asked Vern what he figured they would find stashed away at the GPS coordinates on the map.
“The red dots are facilities. Whether they’re manned or not is anyone’s guess. The caches are going to be like scratching a lotto ticket. No telling what we’ll find. Fuel, water, and food. I’d bet some of them were established in the fifties as part of the government’s COOP program. Stands for continuity of operations planning. The program was aimed more at seeing to the survival of government at the state and local level. CoG on the other hand, continuity of government to us laymen, was established to ensure that enough of the politicians survived a germ attack or nuclear first strike to keep on screwing up our country.”
Riker steered from the home’s RV pad and onto the drive. The shadow from the trees rippled across the windshield, creating a hypnotic effect, and gravel popped under the tires as gravity pulled the pickup downhill.
Up ahead, Shorty had drawn to within a dozen feet of the advancing zombies. Knowing Shorty, he had the shells in the Shockwave staggered, alternating between shot and slug. That he hadn’t opened fire yet told Riker the round in the chamber was likely a shot shell. While highly effective at opening a locked door at close range, shot spread too quickly to destroy a zombie brain at anything but.
As Riker slow-rolled the Shelby forward, eyes locked on Shorty, he unholstered his Sig Sauer Legion and placed the semiautomatic pistol on his lap. “So wouldn’t any food and batteries and stuff of that nature be worthless by now?”
Vern scooped up the MP5 and chambered a round. Checking that the safety was engaged, he said, “After the nine-eleven attacks, the President declared a state of emergency that put the nation on high alert. That alert status was never rescinded. Although the threat of thermonuclear war was thought to be very unlikely thanks to mutually assured destruction, as proven by those weaponized jetliners, terrorists and rogue nations were still deemed to be a viable threat. Especially an EMP attack or decapitation of government due to a suitcase nuke or dirty bomb.”
A rapid-fire series of loud booms broke the still. The first report dislodged an unkindness of ravens from the nearby trees, sending them airborne, wings aflutter and squawking bloody murder. The expanding lead shot from the first discharged round enveloped the lead zombie’s head, erasing its features and sending it flying backward into the others. The second round, a lead slug, caved in the narrow face of a geriatric creature.
Shorty was a blur as he stalked the rest, crunching rounds into the shotgun and sending lead head high into the dead. Once they were all down, he came back to the face-shot zombie. It was blinded and struggling to stand. Shorty drew a black dagger from the sheath on his hip, grabbed a handful of gore-slicked hair, and thrust the blade deep into one eye socket. The zombie went limp at once.
It was all over in a handful of seconds, the final act of kindness on Shorty’s part taking place as the Shelby came rolling out of the shadows. And though all Riker could hear during the entire melee was the cawing of the birds, the low growl of the Shelby’s engine, and the hollow-sounding booms rolling across the lawn toward him, in his head he heard Shorty hollering: Shocky’s gotta eat!
“Damn impressive,” Vern gushed.
“Even for a guy my size,” Riker noted, “that Shockwave is a wrist breaker.”
“Quirks and all,” noted Vern, “Shorty’s definitely an asset.”
Shorty slung the still-smoking shotgun on one shoulder and sheathed the knife. As if he sensed he was being talked about behind his back, he performed a perfect bow and scrape.
Riker pulled up to the T, stopping short of the drift of twice-dead corpses. Throwing the transmission into Park, he said, “I do appreciate the comedy relief he brings to the group.”
“There is that,” agreed Vern. “Every good circus needs a clown.”
Low blow. Riker grimaced. Much like Steve-O and Shorty, Vern Rossi was proving that he also possessed no filter. Voice adopting a more serious tone, Riker said, “So what do you think we’re apt to find inside those red dot sites?”
Watching Shorty grab the geriatric corpse by the wrists, Vern said, “Those sites aren’t going to be easy to find. And if we do find one, it’s not going to be like opening someone’s forgotten garden shed. It will take some work to get to the prize. No doubt some of the sites will be behind double or triple layers of security. Means we’ll need to bring heavy-duty bolt cutters to defeat locks and snip through fences. No doubt the more remote caches will be behind steel blast doors, so bringing the acetylene torch and spare tanks would be a smart move.” He grimaced as brains sluiced from the zombie’s broken skull when Shorty deposited it into the roadside ditch.
Riker had been watching, too. He was about to get out and help when a barely perceptible electronic warble emanated from the radio in his pocket. It was Lia, and her message was more detailed than the one she’d delivered over the radio the day before. Finished listening, he depressed the Talk button. “We’ll be there in ten.”
She said, “Copy that,” and signed off. Riker detected in her voice a certain optimism that had been absent since their first meeting aboard the fire engine two weeks prior. That day had begun with her being abducted, peaked with her escaping from her captors, and had culminated in her helping him rescue a number of corrections officers from a prison southwest of Santa Fe.
Vern said, “You must be smitten. She says jump and you do just that.” He went quiet and watched Shorty roll the final zombie corpse into the ditch. Finally, pinching tears from his eyes, he said, “My wife had the same effect on me.”
Chapter 7
Trinity House
When Riker pulled the Shelby through the compound’s front gate and set the brake, Shorty was first to set foot on the pavers. Before the engine cut off, he had thrown the lock and was pushing through Trinity’s front door.
“So what’s this definitive proof of yours, Lia?” he called to an empty foyer.
“Take a seat and show a little patience, Shorty.” Her voice had carried from the direction of the great room.
Riker came through the door a couple of seconds behind Shorty. “Where is she?” he asked.
Gesturing straight ahead, Shorty said, “In the tribunal room.”
“The great room,” Vern corrected. “Sitting down and hashing things out like adults does not a tribunal make.”
“There you go talking like Master Yoda again.”
Vern ignored Shorty’s barb. Edging past Riker, he said, “Where are the others?”
“Right here,” said Tara. She was coming from the kitchen. In her hands was a large serving platter piled high with steaming homemade tortillas. The tortillas were ringed by crackers of all shapes and sizes. Steve-O was on her heels and carrying a wooden cutting board. Arranged neatly on the board, like soldiers in formation, was an assortment of cheeses, cured meats, and several different types of olives.
“Oooh,” carped Shorty, “it’s charcuterie Tuesday … again.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Tara said. “If you don’t want to partake in what we made, you can take your sorry butt back to your Roamer and get yourself an MRE. Surely, you’ve not yet grown tired of shredded BBQ beef. I hear the tortillas are the bomb.”
“Hard pass,” Shorty said. “Just pokin’ the bear.”
“With an attitude like that,” Tara said, “a bear is the only thing you’ll be poking.”
Placing both hands over his heart— à la Redd Foxx of Sanford and Son fame—Shorty feigned a coronary.
Riker shook his head as he craned to see past Shorty. Reaching over the shorter man, he placed a hand on Tara’s shoulder, stopping her in her tracks.
Steve-O was slow to react to Tara’s sudden halt. Running into her from behind, he came real close to having everything slide from the cutting board.
Tracing with one finger the longest of a series of scratches marring Tara’s cheek, Riker said, “You get into a fight with a feral cat?”
“Nope,” interrupted Steve-O. “I fucked up.”
“Swear jar,” Shorty said with a mischievous grin.
“Language, friend,” Vern added.
Riker turned his attention to Steve-O. “What do you mean you fucked up?”
“What he means,” Tara said, “is it’s none of your damn business. A zombie got too close for comfort, that’s all. The problem has been rectified. So get out the way so we can move this tailgate party into the stadium.”
Raising his hands in mock surrender, Riker took a step back and let the pair make the corner.
As Tara passed him by, Shorty whispered, “At least you didn’t get tased again.”
The comment landed like a lead balloon. Tara shot him a murderous look and mouthed, “We’ll talk later.”
The front door opened behind them all and in walked Benny and Rose. The former was rubbing his hands together and inquiring about the lunch menu. The latter was wearing the riot helmet and lugging the Mule.
Seeing Rose with the Mule made Shorty forget the veiled threat. Perking up, he said, “Did you kick some zombie butt?”
Rose shook her head. “I spotted for Ben. Held the ladder still while he put the things down.”
“You’ll get your nerve up sooner or later,” Shorty promised. “It took me a few dry runs before I finally pulled the trigger. And believe you me, shooting one of those beasts in the face with a pistol … no matter the caliber, is a lot messier than going at one with Vern’s pneumatic toy.”
“It’s Steve-O’s … toy,” Rose reminded Shorty. “He just let Benny borrow it.”
Shorty looked to Vern. “Can you build one for me?”
“We’ll see,” Vern said. He gave Shorty a gentle shove in the back. “Let’s get in there. I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.”
The comment drew a look of horror from Steve-O.
Riker met Steve-O’s gaze. “It’s just an expression, buddy.” Raising his voice, he said, “Everyone move it. I’m jonesin’ to hear Lia say her piece.”
When Riker emerged into the great room behind the others, it was clear to him that Lia was really taking this thing seriously. She had tacked maps of New Mexico, Arizona, and Nevada to the wooden support beams bracketing the big picture windows overlooking the rear courtyard and the guesthouse that Steve-O, Shorty, and Vern called home.
Given the determined expression on Lia’s face, Riker was fairly certain that if she could have scrounged up a projector, they all would be sitting through a lengthy PowerPoint presentation. Instead, she read her handwritten account of the most recent conversation she’d had with Cole Parker, stopping only after she’d made her case that he and the others were, in fact, being held in Las Vegas.
“Good ol’ Lost Wages,” Shorty said. “I’m amazed the kid remembered that little detail from a snippet of a one-sided drunken conversation. If we play our cards right—pun not intended—it should be an easy in and out.”
Benny said, “This new person who brought the two new kids … the guy Cole called a scout—who was he again?”
“Cole said Janice called him Wayne. He’s a white guy much younger than Kurt. Cole said Kurt never referred to him by that name. Just called him Brother the entire time he was there.”
Vern said, “Brother by blood? Or was Kurt using the generic term? Bikers tend to call each other brother. So do men who have gone to war together.” He went quiet for a second. “Men who have certain skillsets and aren’t afraid to kill. Because if that’s the kind of brotherhood they share—should we get into conflict with them … I’m afraid we’re going to have a fight on our hands.”
Lia said, “My gut tells me it’s the former. Cole overheard Wayne say to Kurt that the rest of the family was going to be two or three days late getting there.”
Rose put a hand on Benny’s thigh. “Great … you’ve confirmed they’re in Las Vegas. Where exactly in Vegas?” she asked. She gestured at the map of Nevada. In one corner was a detailed overview of Las Vegas. “That’s a lot of ground to cover. It’s not going to be an easy in and out like Shorty suggested. Vegas is probably crawling with zombies. Whoever goes on this fool’s errand will be running a gauntlet of them as they bounce from strip mall to strip mall trying to locate the right pawnshop.”
Lia made a face. “There’s more.” She moved to the maps and pointed to an area northwest of the Vegas strip. “Cole said that someone clogged the only toilet. So when he and the others had to go, Kurt or Janice made them do their business in the fenced-in area behind the place where they are being held. Based on Cole’s recollection of what he saw this morning, I think the pawnshop is somewhere in this vicinity.”
“How did you come to that conclusion?” asked Vern.
“Cole remembered seeing two mountain ranges in the desert behind the strip mall. I asked him to describe what he saw between the strip mall and the desert. He insisted there were no tall buildings blocking his view of the mountains. There was also desert behind the building. He thinks he saw a wall in the desert. I’m not sure what to make of that.”
Vern said, “What makes you certain the desert he was looking out on is northwest of downtown? Maybe those mountains he’s seeing are the ones showing on the left or right side of the map.”
Steve-O said, “Las Vegas is in the desert. Tall buildings stand out like sore thumbs in the desert. Wouldn’t Cole have seen at least one of them?”
“Same with Indiana,” said Tara. “It’s so flat a corn field can blot out the horizon. That being said, sounds like Cole has limited visibility from where he’s being kept. Lia’s drawing her conclusion from all the evidence put together.”
Steve-O harumphed, then returned his attention to Lia.
