weapons out and down.
Groundhog-7 covered the two miles in short order, and then the trees came to an end, the road moving into open ground as the valley widened to either side until it reached pine-spotted hills. The brown valley floor rolled gently as the road followed a small stream.
Angie wore a tense smile as she strained against her harness, the house coming into view. Then the smile faltered. And fell.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no . . .” Her voice was climbing. “No!” Her hands balled into fists and tears blurred her vision. “No!” she screamed.
The Franks ranch was fenced, a sturdy line of high chain link marching into the trees, but the gate that closed off the property at the tree line was open. Not open, but knocked down and driven across. The house where Angie had grown up, a large, two-story log home with a wraparound porch, was a rectangle of ashes and charred timbers, a blackened, river-stone fireplace rising at each end. The stables, the barns, and all of the outbuildings had been similarly burned down. Her father’s pickup was black, resting on melted tires, and in what had been the front yard, something was planted in the earth, a post of some kind. A dozen drifters roamed through the destruction, turning toward the sound of the approaching helicopter.
“No,” Angie gasped, slumping back into the co-pilot’s seat.
A small earth mound rose at the back of what had been the house, a heavy steel door set in the side of the small hill at an angle. It was standing open. As the helicopter thumped in for a landing, everyone aboard could see that the ground all around the ranch was torn by tire tracks.
Dean’s Suburban was parked near the bunker entrance, charred and shredded by gunfire.
“Gunners,” Vladimir called over the intercom, “clear the area.”
Using the M240s, Carney and Skye chopped up every drifter within a hundred yards, burning through ammo until the bodies were not only down, but no longer moving. Any other time, there would be cries to conserve the ammunition, but the gunners at both doors were committed to getting their friend safely on the ground. Rage played a part as well, a reptilian urge to destroy the things they had all come to hate so much. As the Black Hawk’s wheels touched down, Skye and Carney unsnapped their harnesses and jogged out from under the turning blades, using their rifles to finish off anything that had survived the airborne fire.
Angie climbed out the side door and walked slowly toward the postlike object stuck in the earth in front of the house. Her fists trembled at her sides, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
The post was actually a crucifix made from wooden beams, and there was a zombie tied to it. The creature gnashed its teeth, wiggling in its bonds, and let out a long, low moan. Crows had been picking at its face, but it was still recognizable.
It was Angie’s father.
FIVE
January 11—Franks Ranch
Skye retrieved Angie’s Galil assault rifle from the chopper and pressed it into the crying woman’s hands, then held her by the back of the neck and pressed their foreheads together. “I’m so sorry, Ang.”
Angie’s body shook with sobs.
Skye’s hand tightened. “We’ll find who did this,” she whispered fiercely. “We’ll kill every last one of them.”
Angie shook her head slowly. “Why would someone . . . ?”
Skye closed her eyes. “I don’t know.”
Behind them, Carney walked a slow circle around the Black Hawk, out beyond the turning blades. The M14 was at his shoulder, and his blue eyes were narrowed, looking out. It was a survival habit he had developed in prison, a necessary skill in the cell blocks that served him well in this new world. When there was a commotion, something drawing everyone’s attention, that was the time to look in the other direction. Death’s favorite tactic was ambush from behind.
The former inmate popped several drifters walking through the fields around the burned ranch.
Groundhog-7 covered the two miles in short order, and then the trees came to an end, the road moving into open ground as the valley widened to either side until it reached pine-spotted hills. The brown valley floor rolled gently as the road followed a small stream.
Angie wore a tense smile as she strained against her harness, the house coming into view. Then the smile faltered. And fell.
“No,” she whispered. “No, no . . .” Her voice was climbing. “No!” Her hands balled into fists and tears blurred her vision. “No!” she screamed.
The Franks ranch was fenced, a sturdy line of high chain link marching into the trees, but the gate that closed off the property at the tree line was open. Not open, but knocked down and driven across. The house where Angie had grown up, a large, two-story log home with a wraparound porch, was a rectangle of ashes and charred timbers, a blackened, river-stone fireplace rising at each end. The stables, the barns, and all of the outbuildings had been similarly burned down. Her father’s pickup was black, resting on melted tires, and in what had been the front yard, something was planted in the earth, a post of some kind. A dozen drifters roamed through the destruction, turning toward the sound of the approaching helicopter.
“No,” Angie gasped, slumping back into the co-pilot’s seat.
A small earth mound rose at the back of what had been the house, a heavy steel door set in the side of the small hill at an angle. It was standing open. As the helicopter thumped in for a landing, everyone aboard could see that the ground all around the ranch was torn by tire tracks.
Dean’s Suburban was parked near the bunker entrance, charred and shredded by gunfire.
“Gunners,” Vladimir called over the intercom, “clear the area.”
Using the M240s, Carney and Skye chopped up every drifter within a hundred yards, burning through ammo until the bodies were not only down, but no longer moving. Any other time, there would be cries to conserve the ammunition, but the gunners at both doors were committed to getting their friend safely on the ground. Rage played a part as well, a reptilian urge to destroy the things they had all come to hate so much. As the Black Hawk’s wheels touched down, Skye and Carney unsnapped their harnesses and jogged out from under the turning blades, using their rifles to finish off anything that had survived the airborne fire.
Angie climbed out the side door and walked slowly toward the postlike object stuck in the earth in front of the house. Her fists trembled at her sides, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
The post was actually a crucifix made from wooden beams, and there was a zombie tied to it. The creature gnashed its teeth, wiggling in its bonds, and let out a long, low moan. Crows had been picking at its face, but it was still recognizable.
It was Angie’s father.
FIVE
January 11—Franks Ranch
Skye retrieved Angie’s Galil assault rifle from the chopper and pressed it into the crying woman’s hands, then held her by the back of the neck and pressed their foreheads together. “I’m so sorry, Ang.”
Angie’s body shook with sobs.
Skye’s hand tightened. “We’ll find who did this,” she whispered fiercely. “We’ll kill every last one of them.”
Angie shook her head slowly. “Why would someone . . . ?”
Skye closed her eyes. “I don’t know.”
Behind them, Carney walked a slow circle around the Black Hawk, out beyond the turning blades. The M14 was at his shoulder, and his blue eyes were narrowed, looking out. It was a survival habit he had developed in prison, a necessary skill in the cell blocks that served him well in this new world. When there was a commotion, something drawing everyone’s attention, that was the time to look in the other direction. Death’s favorite tactic was ambush from behind.
The former inmate popped several drifters walking through the fields around the burned ranch.
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