Part 19 (2/2)
The coordinates were a bust, and the drop was gone, or had never even existed. Hawse and Disco decided to scavenge the area on the way back so that the mission wouldn't be a total loss. They recovered a twelve-volt battery charger, a twelve-volt air pump, some painkillers, and a crossbow with ten bolts. That was it.
They ran into trouble during one of their stops, forcing the mission to go a little longer than expected. Hawse convinced Disco that they should scavenge a home that sat a quarter mile off the main road. The damaged home had visible solar panels and expensive SUVs parked in front-probably rookie preppers with money. Through their optics, they observed that one wing of the home was burned, indicating abandonment or possibly siege. They hopped the fence and approached cautiously, intending to verify abandonment before entering through the damaged McMansion wing. They both hoped that this would be a rescue operation instead of justified theft.
Approaching the wing, they saw charred skeletons scattered about. The corpse nearest the house was also burned, but some flesh still remained. It lay facedown, wearing a military surplus flamethrower. The fuel reservoir on its back was damaged; jagged parts of the tank pointed outward. They neared the corpse.
It began to move.
The creature's head c.o.c.ked sideways at the two. Its eyes were burned out, but it somehow sensed their presence. It tried to crawl but what was left of its lower body was buried in rubble and ash. Hawse approached close enough to kill it with his knife. He saw that the creature wore a leather bandolier of ammunition across its chest.
”Looter?” he said.
”Not sure, maybe. Let's get this over with,” Disco said.
”The walls aren't as damaged as I thought, we'll need to get in somewhere else,” said Hawse.
They walked around to the front. The home was much larger than it appeared from the road. There were bullet holes in places, concentrated around the window frames. The front porch was littered with tarnished bra.s.s, most of it 7.62x39. AK-47 or SKS, Hawse thought. The screen door sat near the front door, torn from its hinges, covered in grime. A sign hung on the front door.
INSURED BY 1911.
”Looks like they needed a better insurance policy,” Hawse said.
”Yeah, something like that.”
Hawse reached for the k.n.o.b and began to turn. The door was unlocked. He paused, listening.
Nothing.
Hawse turned the k.n.o.b and pushed the door inward. He caught a glimpse of something, a small wire, just as the door swung open.
Ping A familiar sound. Both men instinctively dived from the porch onto the ground, and covered their ears before the explosion.
b.o.o.by trap.
The ground was two feet below the plane of the grenade detonation. Disco suffered only minor splinter injury from the damaged porch. They both heard the moans as soon as their ears stopped ringing. The sounds came from behind the house. There must have been dozens, maybe a hundred back there.
Hawse and Disco hoofed it back to Hotel 23, pursued by a respectable horde of undead. They beat the creatures, and the sun, barely.
The third outing was an operational order coming from the carrier, and required vehicle transport. Doc and Disco were to acquire transportation and meet another team for supply pickup and intelligence exchange. The other team was stationed at Galveston Island, ninety miles east of Hotel 23. Both teams would split the mileage and meet at midnight at a bridge on a county road spanning the Brazos River. They would each bring high explosives as a precaution, providing them the ability to deal with a sizable undead ma.s.s. If a swarm pursued either team, they would rig the bridge and call it even on the safe side.
On the night of the mission, Doc and Disco checked and re-checked their gear. They had a fully charged car battery-heavy but essential in starting a long-dead vehicle. They also had two gallons of good stabilized fuel that Hawse had scavenged on the previous mission.
Forty-five miles on foot would be a death sentence; there was no doubt that a vehicle would be an absolute requirement. There was only one type that would give them the speed and power they needed with two gallons of fuel-a motorcycle.
Both men said their good-byes to Billy and Hawse and closed the hatch behind them. They moved east to the nearest road, eyes open for vehicle possibilities. The weight of the car battery and fuel pulled heavily on their backs as they tried to keep a good pace. Their NODs had fresh batteries, and the stars lit the cool December night quite well.
The first prospect they found appeared to be a winner. A black Kawasaki KLR 650 sat parked on its kickstand between two cars. There was no undead movement in the immediate area, so the two decided to make a move on the bike. Doc led and kept his carbine high, adjusting his optic brightness to his NODs. The bike's tires were low. The men modified the twelve-volt air pump with alligator clips so that they could connect it directly to the car battery they had with them. There were drawbacks, as the modified battery-powered air pump made a h.e.l.l of a lot of noise.
There was no point in pumping the tires if the engine wouldn't start. They checked the oil via the window on the right side of the engine. Probably old, but it would work. The keys were missing but these bikes didn't have overly complicated ignition systems. Disco was able to defeat the ignition and the gas cap with his multi-tool and some ingenuity. The bike battery was confirmed dead-no surprise to Doc. He was a motorcycle rider and every time he returned from deployment, he would need to charge the d.a.m.n battery, even after some of the shorter, ninety-day detachments.
Reaching under the headlight, Disco snipped the wires for light discipline. He did the same for the brake lights and turn signals as they were often accidentally activated while riding. They poured a quarter gallon of fuel into the tank and shook the frame, slos.h.i.+ng the good gas in with whatever was left in the tank. Looking inside, Disco could see that it was about half full. They'd need more at some point in the night. Disco checked the tank switch, verifying it was switched on.
They ripped the plastic side panels off, revealing the dead bike battery, so they could quickly attach the alligator clips from the charged battery. The bike had a choke, so Doc preemptively pulled the lever; it would need it after sitting out in the elements this long. They decided to air the tires and start the engine simultaneously. Both would make noise, so they might as well save time. Before they began either, Disco took point and started the watch-they would definitely attract undesirables now. The tires were not completely flat but would need a lot of air to support their combined weight and keep the motorcycle stable.
”Okay, Disco, here goes,” Doc said quietly, attaching the clips from the charged battery to the dead motorcycle. Nothing happened, Doc thought. Then he remembered-gotta push the starter b.u.t.ton. He depressed it and the engine cranked over but didn't start. He repeated for a minute or two, adjusting the choke lever. He also managed to air both tires in between attempts.
The engine started to show promise. Doc was not startled by the sudden sound of Disco's suppressed carbine-the dead were near. The engine finally started fully, prompting Doc to remove the clips and stow the car battery in the side pannier compartment of the bike. The dead were still blinded by the darkness, reacting to Disco's carbine. What Doc wouldn't give for a huge pack of Black Cat firecrackers to toss down the highway. He adjusted the choke lever and the bike began to sputter, but soon adapted to the new setting, growling with health.
”Get on, b.i.t.c.h!” Doc said to Disco.
Disco didn't seem to care; he worried more about the approaching mob. They jutted forward as it began to get crowded on the road. Doc called back to Disco to go over the memorized directions again. They had forty-three highway miles to clear with a fuel stop somewhere in between.
The road was as they expected, cluttered with debris and abandoned cars and the undead. They had to move at least thirty miles per hour, or the engine sound would draw the undead to the road ahead of them. All along the way they noticed the details of desperation. SUVs that had attempted to go around traffic jams and were stuck in medians; cars flipped over, burned out, and filled with undead. Ambulances sitting, back doors wide open, with undead strapped to gurneys. Huge, unserviced potholes were also a menace to them on the motorcycle. If they had been riding a sport bike, they would have already dumped it in the numerous foot-deep holes in the road.
At the top of a hill, they saw a fuel truck jackknifed at ninety degrees with mostly flat tires. There were bullet holes in the cab, but the tank trailer appeared undamaged.
Doc remained on the bike, keeping it running. Putting the kickstand down would activate the engine cutoff, and Doc didn't trust the battery. Not worth it to take any chances.
”Disco, knock that tank and let's see if there's any juice. I'll cover.”
Doc fought the bike into neutral-a difficult task while the engine ran-activating the bright green light on the display panel of the bike. The light burned out his NODs for a moment. Doc covered the light with his glove while Disco checked the tanker.
”She's got gas, man!”
”Okay, what are you waiting for then?”
Disco started the transfer process. Hopefully the fuel sitting in the tanker had not gone bad. The bike didn't have a gauge on the panel so they were guessing at this point. Doc reached down to the reserve lever to make sure it wasn't actuated. He wanted a failsafe.
Using a piece of hose he cut from the trailer, Disco was able to siphon gas from the tank access. He filled the fuel can up, topped the bike off, and then filled the can once more. The markings on the tanker did not indicate whether or not the fuel was mixed with ethanol additives, important for the shelf life. Disco closed the access and suggested that Doc mark this wreckage on the map. Slightly relieved, and with fuel concerns out of the way, they reset their odometer and kept riding to the bridge between them and Galveston Island.
38.
USS George Was.h.i.+ngton ”How far along am I?” Tara asked Jan.
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