Dead America The Third Week | Book 11 | Dead America, Carolina Front, Part 7 Read online

  “What in the holy fuck was that?” Coleman demanded.

  Terrell shook his head as he sat front ways in his seat. “I don’t know,” he replied. “Hopefully it was just some locals that didn’t like the fact we were in their territory.”

  “Well if it wasn’t locals, then who the hell was it?” Miles asked.

  The other two shared a concerned look, the thought dawning on them at the same time that it very well could have been the Boss’ men. Miles glanced in the rearview at their silence, and then had the same thought.

  “Oh, motherfucker,” he spat. “We left, what more do they want?”

  Terrell shook his head. “Same thing we do,” he replied, “revenge. We put a lot of their men down.”

  “Add one more to the list,” Coleman said bitterly.

  “Shotgun work okay?” Terrell asked.

  Coleman smirked. “I was like a goddamn magician, made my assistant’s head disappear.”

  Terrell let out a dark laugh, shaking his head.

  “Sorry to break this up,” Miles cut in, “but where are we going?”

  Coleman sighed. “Good question.”

  “Just head south and west, take back roads and side streets,” Terrell instructed. “If they’re following us, let’s make it difficult for them to track us.” He glanced at the clock that read 6:42. “Sun will start peeking up soon. Once it does, we’ll find a place to lay low.”

  Miles nodded as he took another turn, driving down a vacant darkened road. Terrell leaned back in his seat, touching the light wound on his arm.

  “Hit bad?” Coleman asked, brow furrowing.

  The Captain shook his head. “Nah, just a graze,” he assured him. “Still, a little too close for comfort.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Miles continued to drive along the back country roads as the sun came up. It had been a half an hour since the battle, but the boys were still on high alert. Terrell and Coleman kept watch at every cross street, looking for signs of movement.

  “You got anything?” Coleman asked.

  Terrell shook his head. “Haven’t seen another vehicle even, whether driving or broken down.”

  “We might actually be good, then,” Coleman replied.

  Miles turned down another road, and spotted a large two-story farmhouse in the distance. “What do you say we stop and collect ourselves?” he asked. “Figure out where we’re going.”

  “Maybe get lucky with the kitchen, too,” Coleman added.

  Terrell sighed. “With the way our day started out, I’ll settle for some peace and quiet,” he admitted.

  Miles found the driveway and slowly worked his way up to the house. Within twenty yards of the old building, he skidded to a stop. “Looks like we’re gonna have to work for it,” he muttered, and pointed to the front door.

  There were eight zombies congregating there, shambling around each other.

  “It’s just a handful, nothing too bad,” Coleman said.

  Terrell nodded. “Well, let’s get it done, then.” He flipped open his door and hopped out, slinging his rifle over his shoulder before drawing his knife.

  The other two joined him, following suit, and as they slammed the doors to the SUV, the zombies turned towards the trio, moaning excitedly. The boys moved a little closer.

  The crowd around the door broke apart, but one stubborn zombie continued to bang on the door fiercely. Finally it realized its friends were gone, and turned around sharply, letting out a loud screech before tearing towards them.

  “Runner!” Coleman cried, and dropped his knife on the ground in order to reach the rifle on his back. Just as he raised the weapon, the runner reached him, firing off a few shots but only striking the thing in the gut.

  They tumbled to the ground, and Coleman struggled to keep its gnashing teeth away from him by holding its throat. “Get this fucker off of me!” he yelled.

  Miles rushed over, grabbing the creature by the back of the collar and pulling it up, teeth snapping and clattering. Coleman grabbed his knife from beside him, stabbing upward and hitting the zombie underneath the jaw, the long blade piercing its brain.

  “You all right?” Miles huffed as the body crumpled to the dirt.

  Coleman sat up, examining his arms and hands, relieved when he saw no injury. “I’m good,” he said, and took his friend’s offered hand to get to his feet.

  Terrell, meanwhile, walked towards the seven slower creatures, all moving towards him in a tight pack. He pulled out his handgun, stopping about ten yards from the group and opening fire.

  He shot five deliberate bullets, dropping several of the ghouls with perfect headshots to thin the herd. With the danger reduced, he stepped forward and stabbed the remaining two in the face, eliminating the threat.

  “You good, Coleman?” he asked as he cleaned his blade and sheathed it.

  “Heart rate is a little fast,” Coleman admitted, “but other than that I’m good.”

  Terrell nodded. “Good, because we need to clear the house,” he replied. “If there is a runner, then there’s a good chance there are survivors in there.”

  “Let’s just hope they’re friendly,” Miles replied.

  Terrell readied his rifle. “Just in case they aren’t,” he explained, and then led the trio to the door.

  They moved like they were ready for combat, staying in formation and on high alert. When they reached the door, Terrell nodded to them to make sure they were ready, and then Coleman turned the knob.

  It was locked, and he shook his head.

  “Go,” Terrell said quietly. He took a step back and then delivered a forceful front kick to the old wooden door. It shattered the frame, the door flying back and slamming against the wall. The Captain rushed inside, gun aiming down the long hallway beside the stairs.

  Miles followed him, covering the front room to the left, and Coleman in the rear, taking the right. When nothing jumped out at them, Terrell motioned for Miles to work his way up the stairs.

  The other two did a quick sweep of the downstairs, finding it empty. Everything was covered in dust, with only the occasional ray of morning sunlight illuminating the area.

  Miles slowly moved up the stairs, heading to a landing that stretched back towards the front of the house. He looked back at the dimly lit hallway behind him, a room on either side of the hall. He moved cautiously towards the first room, opening the door and springing inside.

  As he swept the empty bedroom, footsteps clacked behind him. He turned just in time to see a short heavyset man in his thirties with balding black hair coming out of the bedroom across the hall, clothes stained in blood.

  Miles aimed at him, and the man immediately dropped the knife he was holding and raised his arms, fat tears flowing down his cheeks.

  “Please don’t shoot!” he sputtered. “Please! Don’t shoot!”

  Miles slowly lowered his weapon, realizing he’d initially reacted as if the man was a zombie. “I’m not gonna hurt you, bud,” he said gently. “You’re safe now.”

  The man sobbed, wiping a blob of snot away from his nose. He startled as Coleman and Terrell reached the top landing with their guns raised.

  “We’re good up here,” Miles called, and at the sight of the man, both soldiers lowered their weapons.

  “Anybody else up here?” Terrell asked.

  The man shook his head violently. “No, it’s just me,” he was able to say before bursting into a fresh set of sobs, shoulder shaking uncontrollably. The trio gave him a moment to grieve, assuming the runner was his friend.

  “Coleman, secure the door,” Terrell instructed. “Miles, bring our new friend here downstairs while I try and find us something from the kitchen.” He and Coleman headed off, and Miles slowly approached the devastated man.

  “Come on,” he said gently, reaching out to take his arm. “Let’s get you downstairs. You’re okay now.”

  The man gave a wet sniffle and nodded, letting his savior lead him down the hallway towards the stairs.

&n
bsp; CHAPTER THREE

  The man sat on the couch by the window, averting his eyes from the carnage out front, probably not wanting to see his dead friend. Coleman finished securing the door by dragging a nearby hutch in front of it, and Terrell entered holding a tray of glasses, a gallon of water, and some crackers.

  “Slim pickings in there,” he announced, “but at least we ain’t going hungry.” He set down the tray on the coffee table and then handed out glasses and food, pouring himself some water before handing off the jug. “So, what’s your name?” he asked.

  The guy stared off into space, still in a daze, so Terrell snapped his fingers in front of his face, snapping him back to the moment.

  “What’s your name, man?” the Captain asked.

  The man blinked at him. “Uh, Chucky,” he replied hoarsely. “My name is Chucky.” He wiped another glob of snot on his sleeve.

  “Chucky, all right,” Terrell said, keeping his tone relaxed. “My name is Terrell, and this is Miles and Coleman.”

  Chucky swallowed, motioning around the room. “Are… are you guys from the military?”

  “We were before all of this started,” the Captain replied.

  Chucky sniffled again and then picked at his frayed pants. “So… you’re good guys, right?”

  Terrell and Coleman shared a glance at his naivety, and then the Captain shrugged. “That’s right buddy, we are.”

  Chucky looked so relieved in that moment, and leaned forward to fill himself a glass of water before downing half of it in a single gulp. He tried to pass the jug to Miles, who motioned for him to refill his glass first, which he did.

  “So,” the man continued as he caught his breath from his deep draught, “are you guys headed to Florence too?”

  The trio exchanged a confused glance.

  “What’s Florence?” Coleman asked.

  Chucky furrowed his brow. “Florence, South Carolina,” he said. When they didn’t reply still, he continued, “The survivor camp that’s there?”

  “Where did you hear about that?” Terrell prompted.

  “Brian and I…” Chucky trailed off, his voice cracking. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and then continued, his voice trembling. “We’d been riding this thing out, just the two of us. This small little town just up the road called Emerson. It started out good because it was so isolated, but it didn’t take long for the food to run out. We didn’t know what we were going to do until we heard the broadcast from Florence.”

  Miles leaned forward. “Broadcast? Did somebody hijack a radio station or something?” he asked.

  “Not quite,” Chucky replied, shaking his head. “Brian’s dad had a Ham radio, and we’d pass the time talking with other survivors around the country. Hearing their stories made us thankful for our situation. Yesterday, however, we heard a recording, saying that there were a lot of survivors in Florence and that anybody who could hear the message was free to join them.”

  Miles raised an eyebrow. “And you believed them?”

  Chucky blinked at him, looking dumbfounded. “Why wouldn’t we?” he asked. “People are scared and they’re banding together. Why wouldn’t we want to be a part of that?”

  Terrell gave Miles a warning look, and the latter leaned back in his seat, taking a long sip of water.

  “Did they say anything else?” the Captain asked.

  “No, it was a short message,” Chucky replied, shaking his head. “Just saying that it was a safe place for survivors. We went for it… and they got him.” Fresh tears rolled down his cheeks, and Terrell reached out to pat his shoulder.

  “It’s okay, man,” the Captain said softly. “Brian would have been happy to know you’re safe with us.”

  Chucky sniffled but smiled a little, nodding. After he settled in a bit, the trio of soldiers congregated at the front window.

  “So, what do you guys think?” Terrell asked quietly.

  Coleman took a deep breath. “If I were a betting man, I’d say it’s a trap.”

  “Yeah, but what if it isn’t?” Miles asked.

  “Wow, what a compelling counter argument,” Coleman said icily, rolling his eyes. “Were you in debate club or something?”

  Miles raised his palms in surrender. “All I’m saying is, it’s a calculated risk.”

  “Miles is right,” Terrell put in. “We have no idea where we’re going, and if this place has friendly survivors it could be worth checking out.”

  Coleman crossed his arms. “And what if it has people who want to kill us?” he asked.

  “It’ll be just like any other day in the apocalypse,” Miles replied with a shrug.

  Coleman contemplated for a moment, but then nodded, realizing his friend was right.

  “And if they are friendlies,” Terrell added, “we need to warn them about the Boss.”

  Coleman’s brow furrowed. “You think he would come this far south?” he wondered.

  “I think that asshole has ambitions, so I wouldn’t want to take the chance,” Terrell said.

  The sniper let out a sigh, and then scratched the back of his head. “So… does anybody actually know where Florence is?”

  Terrell and Miles shrugged and shook their heads.

  “It’s about eighty miles away,” Chucky piped up from the couch, turning his watery eyes to them. “You just go up that highway until you hit Lumberton, that’s where the interstate is. Then it’s a straight shot south. Can’t be more than eighty miles or so.”

  Coleman nodded. “We got the gas to get us there?” he asked.

  “Barely,” Miles replied, tilting his hand back and forth. “We’re probably going to want to fill up just in case there’s trouble. Last thing you want to do while being chased is run out of gas.”

  Coleman grinned. “Looks like we got a plan.”

  Terrell patted Miles on the shoulder and held out his hand for the keys to the SUV. “If you guys want to salvage whatever you can from the kitchen, I’m gonna go clean out the back seat for our new friend here,” he said, inclining his head to Chucky.

  “Clean out?” Miles asked, furrowing his brow. “I didn’t think we had anything back there.”

  The Captain shrugged. “Well, we did just get in a firefight,” he pointed out. “There’s a fair amount of broken glass back there.”

  “Right,” his friend replied. “We’ll be right out, then.”

  Terrell headed out of the room and out the front door, the sun shining brightly on him. He took a moment on the porch to enjoy the rays on his dark skin before strolling up to the SUV. Just before he reached it, a shot rang out in the distance, the bullet narrowly missing him and embedding into one of the pillars on the porch.

  He dove behind the SUV for cover as gunfire peppered the vehicle.

  Miles and Coleman rushed back from the kitchen, taking cover on either side of the window. They looked out just in time to see Terrell diving behind the SUV and readying his assault rifle. They scanned the horizon, looking for the source of the shots.

  “You see anything?” Coleman asked.

  Miles shook his head. “Got nothing,” he replied.

  “Get upstairs, I’ll cover Cap from down here,” Coleman instructed.

  Miles nodded. “On it.” He got up, and grabbed a quivering Chucky from the couch, dragging him over to the corner where there were two large antique wooden hutches. Miles picked up a potted plant wedged between them and tossed it aside before shoving Chucky in the gap. “You stay here until we tell you otherwise, got it?” he asked firmly.

  The shaking man nodded furiously.

  “Good,” Miles replied, and then broke away to the doorway to the hallway.

  As soon as he emerged, he saw movement in the corner of his eye and turned to see two armed men moving through the kitchen. They turned towards the hallway just as he spotted them, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to duck away in time.

  “Contact!” Miles cried, and lifted his assault rifle, popping off several shots from the hip, forcing
the two men to duck back into the kitchen for cover. He moved to the stairs, getting around the banister as his enemies fired at him, wood splinters flying everywhere.

  He laid in wait, listening for footsteps to come up the hallway. After a few tense moments, there were a few boot heels on linoleum, and once they hit the wood of the hall floor, he flipped his assault rifle to three-round burst, stuck it over the side of the banister blindly and squeezed off a few batches.

  Panic fire came back towards him, as well as screams of pain, forcing him to retreat around the stairs. When the gunfire stopped, he peeked over with his gun at the ready, seeing that he’d hit one of the men in the knee, and his buddy was attempting to drag him back to the kitchen.

  Miles fired again, hitting the standing man in the shoulder, forcing him to let go and run back to the kitchen. He lined up another shot, but before he could fire, the banister just below his head exploded, sending wood dust up into his face. He fell back onto the stairs, momentarily stunned from the blast.

  The wounded attacker on the floor started yelling. “Get to cover!” he screamed. “Go, go!”

  As Miles pulled himself back up, the bullets continued to shred the side of the stairs.

  “Get some motherfucker, get some!” the wounded man shrieked. “I got all you can han-”

  His tirade was cut short when Coleman leaned out the doorway from the living room and fired several shots into the man’s chest, dropping him.

  “Miles, you good?” Coleman asked.

  His companion hopped up, shaking wood splinters from his body. “Yeah, I’m here!”

  “He have any friends?” Coleman asked.

  “One went back to the kitchen,” Miles replied. “Got him in the shoulder, at least I think I did.”

  Coleman nodded. “I’ll take care of him, you cover Cap,” he said.

  As they broke, gunfire outside erupted, and Miles rushed up the stairs, legs pumping hard. Coleman jumped out into the hallway, gun trained on the back kitchen, hugging the wall to make himself a smaller target. He carefully stepped over the dead man, keeping his focus sharp.