Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse by Shawn Chesser Page B

next Z’s
full attention, and before Cade could react, the monster had grabbed ahold of
the suppressor and was drawing it into its open maw.
    Smiling, Cade simultaneously caressed the trigger and said,
“Careful what you wish for.” Instantly a pink mist vented from its neck as the
9mm Parabellum caromed off jawbone and lodged somewhere in the monster’s spinal
column. Before the now paralyzed flesh eater hit the ground, Cade had swept the
pistol to his left and double-tapped the straggler, putting one bullet into
each eye socket. Lastly, he shifted in his seat, leaned out the window aiming
down and delivered the coup-de-grace: a single shot to the prostrate Z’s
forehead.
    In all, from Max’s first bark to Cade’s final shot, only a
dozen seconds had ticked into the past. And while those twelve seconds elapsed,
Wilson had cut the lock and unwrapped the length of chain.
    “Let’s go,” Brook hissed through clenched teeth. “There’s
more coming.” Then, leading by example, she placed the M4 at her feet, grabbed
the chain-link in both hands and drew in a deep lungful of carrion-infused air.
    “On three,” said Wilson, grabbing some fence as well.
    Eschewing the countdown, Brook bellowed, “Now!” and leaned
forward, driving her feet furiously against the asphalt driveway.
    Behind both of their efforts a grating sound emanated from
within the channel and the wheels began to roll; finally, after what had seemed
like an eternity, the entrance was clear and Cade was driving the Ford over the
threshold.
    Seeing the tailgate glide by, Brook grabbed her carbine and
placed it on her side of the fence. Then, summoning the strength necessary from
somewhere deep inside her, she grabbed hold of the fence and drove it forward
until it clanged shut. She fell to the asphalt, winded and totally spent.
    After looping the chain and securing it with the zip tie,
Wilson called out to Brook who was now sitting Indian-style on the cracked
asphalt and breathing hard. “You know that thing is supposed to be motorized.”
    She said nothing at first. Kept her head bowed, back arched.
    Wilson didn’t know if she was praying or staring at the
weeds growing up through the frost-heaved cement. Finally, after a few long
seconds, she said, “Just our luck,” and rose shakily on rubbery legs.
    Walking slowly side-by-side towards Mesa View 4x4, Wilson
said matter-of-factly, “I’m afraid to find out what your husband is getting us
into.”
    “Copy that,” mumbled Brook.
     
     
     
    Chapter 15
     
     
    For the better part of an hour, as Elvis put the dozer
through its paces, curling layers of topsoil away to make room for Bishop’s
small fleet of helicopters, the former Navy SEAL had been observing from the
elevated porch behind the massive lake house. After casting cautious glances
and never seeing a change in his boss’s rigid stance or stoic facial
expression, Elvis began to think that Bishop had somehow slipped away and left
a lookalike mannequin in his stead.
    Eventually Elvis put the fact that he was being watched to
the back of his mind and finished clearing the main rectangle. He was dutifully
plowing the splintered and broken trees to the periphery when he happened to
cast an absentminded glance towards the porch and noticed that Bishop—or his
doppelgänger mannequin—was no longer scrutinizing his work.
    Where did you go? Elvis thought, bringing the
clanking dozer to a halt. With the throbbing engine rattling his bones he took
off his Husker’s hat with its newly acquired band of sweat, craned his head
left and, in the distance, near the north gate, spotted a pair of mercenaries
hacking the arms off a newly arrived pair of walking dead, but no Bishop. He
looked right and saw a flash of light off of chrome beyond the lake house. A
beat later a vehicle whose profile looked vaguely familiar cut the corner,
trailing a turbid cloud of dust, brown and gauze-like. Finally the boxy front
end and gleaming bumper was aimed at him