Dead World (Book 1): Dead Come Home by Nathan Brown, Fox Robert Page A

Romero.
     
    This brought to mind something that Ma had said to him.
     
    … these two odd fellows showed up out back a couple of hours ago. I’ve been wonderin’ if they’re from the hospital because the two of ‘ems just been standin’ out there like a couple half-wits for quite a while now.
     
    “Ma … please be all right,” Mike whispered to the steering wheel.
    Traffic had not been light, and Mike was certain he’d managed to violate just about every traffic law in existence by now. He ran several stop signs in Bowie, had failed to yield, passed a number of cars on the right, accidentally dinged the rear of a VW Bug, left the scene of that accident, and had driven about 90 to 100 miles an hour the entire time. He honestly wondered if there wasn’t a warrant out for his arrest by now.
     
    Wouldn’t surprise me. But I’m not stopping for anything or anyone until I know Ma is safe. That includes cops.
     
    The cell phone wailed and vibrated, shaking around in its place in the cup holder like a giant, electronic Mexican jumping bean. Mike reached for it and flipped the thing open.
    “Hello?”
    “So I hear you didn’t listen to me … again,” a familiar voice said.
    “Bennett?”
    “You better fuckin’ believe it. Hanse sent me the number. Said he had to give you a cell phone because you showed up at DFW without one, you thick-headed moron!”
    “Yeah …”
    “You okay?”
    “Not sure,” Mike said, forcing a chuckle. “Some guy tried to dance with me at the strip. I had to make him stop.”
    “Did you bring the music?”
    “No … it was a live band.”
    Both men knew better than to speak literally of certain things over an unsecured cell phone connection. Mike was now communicating in Bennett’s personal code language. The “music” Bennett spoke of meant “weapon,” and the “live band” Mike mentioned told Bennett that he had not used one.
    “Were there any spectators?”
    “Just the crickets,” Mike said, swerving haphazardly around a slower moving car.
    “Well, I’ll just let Hanse know that you need a choreographer.”
    “Already done.”
    “Good man … how’s your Ma?”
    “Not sure … I’m a few minutes away.”
    “So … are you planning on watching the live band at Ma’s, or do you have some music?”
    “Hanse left me a CD.” By which he meant a handgun.
    “How ‘bout an LP?” Rifle.
    “Got a few at Ma’s. Nothing too high tempo, but those old tunes can still get people moving.”
    “Good,” Bennett let out a sigh. Mike knew what that sigh meant … Bennett was about to give him some bad news.
    “What is it?”
    “It’s Fish-man.”
    “Did he not make the drop Hanse set up?”
    “No … he made it. But the chopper went down just outside of Reno.”
    “What? How?”
    “That’s the weird part,” Bennett said with a tone of disbelief. “I interviewed one of the air traffic guys who received the chopper’s mayday. He said it sounded like the pilot was being attacked.”
    “Attacked by who?”
    “Well, Fish was the only passenger.”
    “Why would Fish attack the pilot who just pulled him out of a shit-storm?”
    “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out. But I should tell you that I got an all-points-intel bulletin that said to avoid contact with anyone who looks like they may have teeth marks or bites.”
    “What was the source?”
    “CDC. Looks like a protocol to stop an infection from spreading.”
    “Any specifics?”
    “None,” Bennett sighed again. “But what if this infection is what’s making people crazy?”
    “The guy who danced with me at the airstrip didn’t have his right hand. I thought it might have been an accident. But now that you mention it, the thing could have been gnawed off by something.”
    “Okay, tough guy,” Bennett suddenly grunted, as though he were in pain. “I don’t have much time so listen up.”
    “Shoot.”
    “These things won’t go down without a head or spinal shot.”
    “How do you