Judgment Day -03 by Arthur Bradley Page B

odd angles, no doubt the result of people trying to push their way through the congestion. His prey could be hiding in any one of them, planning his next move, or perhaps just waiting for morning.
    Nakai could make out the dark but familiar sign for a Motel 6 not far down the street. Half a dozen smaller buildings lined the sides of the thoroughfare, most of them unrecognizable in the night. Other than the tow truck, there wasn’t a single light to be found anywhere—no candles, no flashlights, not so much as a flicker of someone lighting a late-night smoke. It was as if the town had died in its entirety. That struck him as strange. Even the hardest hit communities had their share of survivors. Why was Richmond Hill different?
    As if in answer to his question, the wind shifted, and he caught the sound of faint whispers. Someone was out there. Someone who didn’t want to be discovered.
     
     
    Peeking out from behind a huge pine tree, Mason took a moment to consider his next course of action. If he did nothing, the hundreds of infected men and women who were secretly snaking their way up the on-ramp would soon swarm the mercenaries. While Mason held no love for the soldiers of fortune, he needed to capture Nakai alive. Not for any honorable intention, such as seeing him convicted in a court of law, but rather, to use whatever means were necessary to discover the man’s employer. If Nakai died, so would Mason’s only link to whomever had masterminded the attack on the marshals.
    It would take but a single shot to draw the attention of the mercenaries and spoil the ambush. Once alerted, the soldiers would chew them up with the .50 caliber machine guns. But in doing so, it would put Mason back on uneven ground against an army of trained soldiers. Despite his recent success in slowing their convoy, he saw no clear way to actually defeat them.
    No, he thought, I will wait and let the enemy of my enemy do my bidding. If Nakai and his men triumph, they will be weaker and fewer in number. Even if they lose, Nakai might find a way of escaping. He was, according to Van Gogh, a very dangerous man. And dangerous men often found ways to survive.
     
     
    Nakai motioned for Jeb to approach. The big man rushed across a small parking lot and moved up beside him. Nakai was peeking around the corner of a small grocery store.
    “Do you see him?” whispered Jeb.
    Without answering, Nakai stepped back and motioned for him to take a look.
    When Jeb leaned around the corner, he saw dozens of men and women moving along the dark street. Their bodies were stiff, and they shuffled along like their knees didn’t bend quite right. They made very little sound other than heavy breathing and the scrubbing of their shoes across the asphalt. They all moved in the direction of the off-ramp to the interstate. Most of them carried primitive weapons—pipes, sticks, knives, and shovels.
    Jeb ducked back around the corner.
    “Night of the frickin’ dead!”
    Nakai nodded.
    The two men stood in the shadow of the building and watched as the mob slowly passed. When the infected arrived at the tow truck, they stopped and began banging on the hood, shouting at the soldiers on the interstate above them.
    “What the hell?” Jeb looked astonished. “Do they really think they can draw us out? Even if they did, those sticks and shovels wouldn’t hold up against rifles.”
    Nakai said nothing as he gazed up the long off-ramp. He played out possible scenarios. Even using the cover of cars, anyone who tried to charge up the ramp would be shot to pieces. Were they really that stupid?
    But they didn’t advance. Instead, the infected began shouting unintelligible obscenities as they continued taking great pleasure in beating the hell out of the tow truck.
    A thought suddenly occurred to Nakai. His eyes scanned the night, looking for confirmation. Then he saw it—the back door.
    “Shit,” he spat, pushing off the wall, and bringing the Aug up to his