Judgment Day (Book 2): Redemption Read online

  Judgment Day: Redemption

  JE Gurley

  1

  Redemption: salvation, deliverance, rescue, atonement or release.

  Former Technical Sergeant Vince Holcomb carefully maneuvered the four-wheeled Polaris Ranger 400 All-Terrain Vehicle down the course of a rough, narrow wash, avoiding large rocks and debris scattered along its length. Even so, it was a bone-jarring, muscle-bruising ride. He scraped the wall as he threaded the machine through one particularly narrow section, bringing down a cascade of dirt and sand on his passenger, Dan Mateo. Mateo glanced at him, scowling as he wiped dirt from his mouth.

  “Almost there,” Vince shouted over the roar of the engine.

  The long, winding wash ran north from a dirt ranch road off Black Hills Mine Road east of San Manuel, Arizona. Their destination was nearby Bassett Peak in the Galiuro Mountains. At 7,600 feet in elevation, the peak would be the perfect spot for the second radio repeater. He eyed the rugged terrain between them and the mountain and wondered again if he had made the right decision.

  They had positioned the first repeater atop a microwave tower outside Oracle. It had been no simple manner to hoist the heavy battery, solar panel, and repeater up the 125-foot tower, toiling in the scorching heat, but they had accomplished the task in half a day. From it, Vince looked out at the glittering domes of Biosphere2 in the distance. The dome had proven a safe haven so far, but the endless bickering and the growing tension reminded him too much of the locked-down Red Rock nuclear facility beneath Pinal Air Park and the death of Major Evers. Vince liked to think of himself as a loner and preferred his own company to that of others. He had no real problem with his present companion, Mateo. At least Mateo wasn’t afraid of hard work and shared Vince’s dislike of large crowds.

  Vince slid the ATV sideways to a halt before the edge of a ten-foot drop off in the wash, mentally berating himself for allowing his mind to wander. They faced two choices: backtrack and find another wash, or hike the rest of the way. The sun was low in the sky, and he didn’t relish the idea of driving the dangerous, winding washes in the dark.

  He lifted the goggles from his face, revealing dark raccoon-like circles of dirt around his brown eyes. As he removed his helmet, sweat soaked hair fell across his eyes. His black locks were longer now since he had abandoned the Air Force. Or, had it abandoned him? He supposed it was all in how he looked at it.

  “Looks like we walk,” he said.

  Mateo groaned but got out of the ATV and hefted the pack containing the repeater. He grabbed one of the solar panels, leaving the 35-pound battery and solar charger for Vince. Each carried a pistol and a rifle, Mateo an M16 and Vince a Remington R-25 automatic. Modeled on the military AR10 with which he was familiar and, the R-25 fired a readily available .308 Winchester round. The deer rifle was accurate, lightweight, and thanks to a little machine shop know how, he could attach a seven-inch silencer for discrete zombie work. He didn’t expect to encounter any zombies this far out, but the thought of the leaving the rifle behind in the ATV had not occurred to him. It had become a part of him.

  The heat, the loose rocks, and their heavy burdens made the climb treacherous and exhausting. There was no shade. The sun beat down on them mercilessly, forcing frequent rest stops. His instinct was to push on and get the job done. He did relish the idea of spending the night in the open on the mountain. Even in the summer, at 7,000 feet the nights got chilly. However, common sense held him to a steady, manageable pace. One slip could send either or both of them sliding to their deaths.

  Finally, after two hours of climbing, they reached a suitable spot to place the repeater. It was several hundred feet below the peak, but without climbing gear, it was the best they manage. Before they started working, Vince sat on the ground to catch his breath after the arduous climb. At 38, he was still in good shape, but during the last few months at Biosphere2, he had lost his edge. After the zombie plague, he had become a chronicler, walking the state to bear witness to the end of mankind. He had been lean and fit. He patted his stomach ruefully. Regular meals had added ten pounds to his five-foot, eight-inch frame.

  He looked up at Mateo, who was watching him with a wide grin on his face. “Tired, old man?”

  “You wish,” he growled. “Time to work.”

  While Mateo drove a metal spike in the hard earth to anchor the unit and mount the solar cell, Vince made all the necessary connections and then double-checked them. He dialed in the proper frequency to make certain the set was receiving the signal properly from the first repeater. To his relief, it was.

  “Two of the bastards down,” he said.

  “And one bastard to go,” Mateo replied.

  “Steamboat won’t be as rough.”

  The third repeater was destined for Steamboat Mountain in the Dripping Springs range near Kearny near the San Pedro River. At about 2,000 feet in elevation, Steamboat was more easily accessible and was far enough from Biosphere2 to keep them safe from prying radio ears.

  “I don’t mind being away from home, if you can call a glass box with forty something busy-bodies home, but I wasn’t cut out for this mountain goat routine.”

  Vince smiled. At five-ten and twenty-eight years old, the well-muscled Mateo was in his prime. He had once played rugby for a semi-pro team in California.

  “It’s better than hefting sand bags, I guess,” Mateo added after a moments’ thought, referring to the wall that Mace had pushed to construct around the main habitat at Biosphere2.

  “What’s wrong? Afraid of a little hard work?”

  “Yeah, Vince, that’s why I decided to go mountain climbing with you.” He rose, dusted off his pants and picked up his pack, now decidedly easier to carry without the cumbersome repeater. “Race you back down.”

  “Go ahead and break your fool neck,” Vince chided. “Don’t expect me to carry your sorry ass back to the ATV.”

  The descent took less than an hour and was considerably less physically challenging than their ascent, but the setting sun was already playing across the slope creating shadows and making their footing treacherous. Near the ATV, Vince spotted a jackrabbit in a patch of brittlebush enjoying the cool of dusk. He motioned Mateo to silence, screwed the silencer onto the barrel of the R-25 and fired. With a soft pop, the rabbit fell. They had brought a supply of canned goods and freeze-dried rations, but fresh meat was always welcome.

  Mateo built a smokeless fire with of dried wood in the shadow of the wash where there was little chance of it anyone spotting it. Vince, who considered himself a decent cook, prepared a hearty stew using a package of freeze-dried vegetables and some dried herbs he had included in their supplies. When the stew was ready, they sat in the ATV and ate.

  “I wish I had a cold beer,” Mateo said, grimacing at the taste of the lemonade powder mixed with tepid water.

  Vince made a mental note that lack of beer had not prevented Mateo from devouring a second bowl of stew. “If wishes were horse, beggars would ride,” Vince replied.

  “If I had a horse, I’d send it back for a cold beer and a woman.”

  “Who, Janis Heath?” Vince had pursued a couple of women at the dome, but Heath had not been one of them. He preferred his women with a little less mouth and a little more brains.

  “Heath?” Mateo snarled. “Hell no. She’s a case of dynamite waiting for a spark. No, I was thinking of Susan McNeil, the CDC woman. She’s beautiful, smart, and has a steady job.”

  Vince laughed and nodded. “Nice choice, Dan. Permanence is a good thing this day and age.”

  Mateo rinsed out his bowl and replaced it in the box of supplies. He grabbed his bedroll, tossed it on the ground beside the ATV and spread it out. “At least, I can dream about
a cold beer.”

  “Dream about two and I’ll join you.” Vince cleaned his bowl, the spoons and the stewing pan and replaced them. They were running low of water but he hoped to refill them at the San Pedro River. He built the fire higher to ward off hungry animals. Normally, one of them would stand guard against zombies while the other slept, but this far into the mountains, he didn’t think they would be a problem. Wild animals presented a bigger threat – mountain lions, coyotes, javelinas, or even the stray wolf or black bear – but the fire would keep them away. Just in case, he refilled the ATV’s nine-gallon tank from one of the jerry cans they had brought and made sure the keys were in the ignition in case they needed to get away quickly.

  It was easy for him to forget they were only a few miles from a city filled with zombies, when he was lying in his sleeping bag with a full belly, and watching the stars, slowly marching across the sky,. The serenity of the night erased the trials of the day. Killing zombies had become so second-natured that he hardly thought about them now before pulling the trigger, but at night alone with his thoughts, the zombies’ mutation troubled him even more than the danger they presented.

  He had witnessed zombie encounters with freshly turned zombies. More often than not, the newcomer became just another source of food, but every now and then, the pack seemed to recognize something about a particular convert that made him brethren and welcomed him into the fold. Like all pack animals, they had a strict hierarchy with an Alpha male at the top, cared for their young as a group, and worked as a coordinated hunting unit. They were cunning and dangerous. If they had not looked so human, it would have been easy to consider them simply as animals. Their resemblance to dark-skinned Neanderthals lent credence to the theory that they were some type of evolutionary throwbacks, but no humans had ever possessed the strength, the endurance or the insatiable hunger that characterized zombies.

  Vince fell asleep listening to the far off call of a coyote.

  * * * *

  Both men were up at dawn. After a quick cup of coffee and a protein bar for breakfast, they packed the Polaris ATV and headed back through San Manuel on their way to Mammoth. Founded as a company town in 1953 for the San Manuel Copper Mine, San Manuel had been in a decline even before the plague. Since the closing of the mine and smelter in 2003, the population had dropped nearly a thousand people. Over half were above the age of forty; a quarter of the population was above the age of 60. Long-time residents simply remained rather than move. On their first trip through town, they had seen few zombies. Now, on the return journey, the pair was not so lucky.

  Vince slowed the ATV to a crawl at the edge of town. “We could swing around town through the mine tailings,” he said to Mateo.

  Mateo snapped the safety off on his M16. “I don’t feel like breathing in all those heavy metal dust particles. Let’s do this.”

  Vince thought the suggestion was unwise, but they were both armed and Mateo was a good shot or Vince would not have invited him along for the ride. Vince could not handle the R-25 and drive, but he could maneuver the ATV while holding his .45 automatic.

  “Right. Let’s go.” He gunned the Polaris’ 29 hp engine and shot ahead. A few zombies raced at them from nearby buildings but could not catch up. However, as they passed the Fire Department, a small crowd gathered near one of the subdivisions. The rough road made aiming difficult, but set on full automatic, Mateo’s M16 swept through the crowd, killing a few and disabling several more. Vince dropped one zombie with several shots to its chest. Even with the fused sternum and ribs the zombies were developing, a high velocity .45 slug caused considerable damage to flesh and bone.

  One zombie threw itself in front of the ATV. Vince hit it with a satisfying crunch, glad of the protective wire mesh he had welded across the front of the roll cage. The vehicle bounced over the zombies’ body and tottered for a few seconds on two wheels. He leaned in the opposite direction to right it and they were through. A few zombies trailed behind them but ate only dust for their effort.

  “Let’s go back and kill a few more,” Mateo suggested with a broad grin as he shoved a fresh clip in his M16.

  “Screw that. We’ve got a job to do.”

  In reply, Mateo took aim at a young boy ambling toward them from the former health center. Mateo dropped him with two quick rounds and said, “I don’t see why the two have to be mutually exclusive.”

  Vince wondered what inner devil drove Mateo. He had been one of the newcomers, discovered wandering the streets of Anaheim by a scouting patrol. He spoke little about his past, but Vince suspected there was some darkness lingering there. He seemed a controlled individual at most times, but he harbored a hatred for zombies that bordered on the insane. As for himself, Vince wanted them dead, but he had killed enough in the last eight months to realize eliminating them one by one was useless. He was betting his money on Erin Costner’s group and a vaccine.

  Driving north Highway 77, they come across a long line of abandoned automobiles blocking the road before a bridge crossing a canyon. Rather than curse his bad luck, Vince was pleased to see no Hunter gangs had passed through and cleared the bridge. It meant Biosphere2 still had a little breathing room. He and Mateo cut cross-country, backtracking a few miles until they found a way around the roadblock using farm roads and a trail once used by the power company to inspect power lines.

  One of the small roads they discovered ran parallel to the Union Pacific Railroad tracks, avoiding many of the small towns that clung to Highway 77 as grapes cling to the vine. They spotted few individual zombies along the way either in fields or near farmhouses but no hunting packs. Near Winkleman, they refilled their canteens from the San Pedro River, now reduced to just a trickle in the summer heat, near the point where it joined the Gila River, crossed Highway 77 and headed up into the Dripping Springs Mountains following the course the Gila River had carved through the mountains over the eons.

  Twenty miles north of Winkleman, a twenty-five vehicle pileup stopped their trek cold. Two tractor trailers had jack knifed and burned, effectively plugging the road as it passed through a narrow canyon. Other vehicles had rounded the curve, had been unable to stop quickly enough and ploughed into the wreckage. A landslide from spring rains had added to the carnage.

  “We’ll never reach Steamboat Mountain like this,” Mateo pointed out as they searched a way around.

  Vince eyed the mountains surrounding them. It was important that the repeater station was high enough but not blocked from the second repeater by other mountains. He pointed to a possible site about 3,000 feet above them, a ridge running east to west.

  “That might do. The valley gives it line of site to San Manuel and it doesn’t look too steep. We can probably drive the ATV to within a couple of miles of it.”

  Mateo shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

  An hour later, Vince realized his first assessment of the ridge was too optimistic. The rough terrain forced them to backtrack six miles before finding a way off the highway. He eyed the steep, limestone slope with some trepidation. He kicked his boot into the dirt and saw it was loose and powdery, not the best for traction. He also uncovered fossilized seashells. It was difficult for him to image the entire area beneath an ancient, shallow inland sea.

  “We can try the slope or hike it,” he told Mateo, offering him the option.

  Mateo smiled. “It’s too damn hot to walk. I’m game.”

  “Your funeral,” Vince replied and he squeezed the throttle and started up the slope. The tires dug furrows in the dirt but the 9-inch suspension kept the frame and oil pan out of harm’s way. When the slope became too steep to go straight, he angled the ATV with both occupants leaning upslope for counterbalance. In this way, they reached their first obstacle five hundred feet below the ridge top, a treacherous spine of rock barely wider than the ATV. Three-quarters of the way across, Vince was ready to congratulate himself when a section of rock crumbled beneath the right rear tire.

  The ATV canted dangerously to the right. Vin
ce’s view of the long drop below them brought a lump to his throat. He revved the engine as the tire fought for purchase. For ten heart-pounding seconds, it looked as though they would not make it; then, the ATV shot forward to safety.

  “Far enough,” Vince said, killing the engine.

  “Yeah, walking looks good right about now,” Mateo agreed. His tanned face was white and his eyes were still wide with fright. His hand was numb and pale from gripping the safety bar so tightly. He shook it to reintroduce the flow of blood to his fingers. As he climbed out of the ATV, he sliced his hand on a loose bolt.

  “Damn,” he moaned.

  “Are you cut bad?” Vince asked.

  Mateo examined his wound. “Nah. Just a shallow cut.” He wrapped it with a handkerchief and picked up his pack.

  They set up the remaining repeater station without incident and checked it out. Mace now had his wish. They could try to contact other Ham radio operators safely. Even a determined search would not disclose their location. The return trip down the ridge in the ATV was not as harrowing as their ascent. Vince let gravity and the brakes do most of the work. Their mission accomplished, all that remained was the journey home.

  When they reached the Gila River, Vince asked Mateo, “Do we make camp here tonight or keep going?”

  “I still want that cold beer. If we push it and we’re lucky, we could be back by midnight.”

  Vince did not like driving at night even though they would be going over terrain they had passed through earlier. There were too many unseen things in the dark. He looked at Mateo, saw how tired he looked and agreed.

  “All right.”

  On the outskirts of Winkleman, their luck ran out. Alerted by the sound of the ATV echoing off the valley walls, a hunting pack of zombies led by an Alpha with one eye ambushed them. The zombies were upon them so quickly they had no time to run. Vince slid the ATV to a stop beside an overturned Chevy van, grabbed his rifle, and leaped behind the ATV for cover. Mateo followed right behind him. Their first shots brought down three of the pack, but the wary Alpha dodged behind a low wall. The zombies, experienced hunters, fanned out to encircle them, but they seemed in no hurry.