The Zone: A Post-Apocalyptic Thriller (Infection Chronicles Book 1) (13 page)

“I think one of us needs to go with you. This mission needs oversight,” Finn demanded.
 

“Oversight?”

“What if you just rescue the girl and leave the others?”

“I’ll bring out as many as I can.”

“Am I the only one disturbed by this man’s barbaric methods? He tortures, maims, and kills at will. Like it’s some kind of game.”

“You prefer we try to negotiate the release of the hostages?”

“Perhaps that’s something we should try first.”

“Be my guest. You walk up to that front gate and just ask for them back. See how far you get.”
 

Finn said nothing.

“You can think whatever you want about me, and my methods. But this is the real world. You either survive, or perish,” Steele said. His face was tense. His eyes seared into Finn. “You want oversight? Fine. You come with us. But if you get in my way, it will be the last thing you ever do.”

Finn gulped. His face went pale. You could tell he didn’t want to get anywhere near combat.

Steele wasn’t about to leave Chloe behind. And he wasn’t about to let anyone compromise the mission. He wished he could walk away—it would be easier. But he couldn’t. Chloe reminded him too much of Madison and everything that had gone wrong before. Maybe this could make it right, in some strange way. If he could save Chloe, maybe he could put Madison’s ghost to rest.

STEVE RADDICK'S FILE was long, detailed, and a little surprising. Steele found his information in the database easily. It seemed the government had taken an interest in Raddick. The government had taken an interest in a lot of people, not always for the right reasons. You could get on a watch list these days for relatively benign things. But not the case with Raddick.

The file photo of Raddick's showed a chiseled man in his mid-40s with a beard and aviator sunglasses. It was the most current image taken of him. Steele wanted to get to know the man he was about to fight. If you knew the enemy, and how he thought, you could defeat him. It was a fool’s errand to attack someone you knew nothing about.

Raddick was former special forces with a specialty in PSYOPs (psychological operations). It made sense, and explained his skill at becoming a cult leader. Manipulation and control. That’s what he was trained to do. US PSYOP forces are forbidden to influence the opinions of US citizens. But Steele knew this was a gray area frequently dipped into—especially during campaign season. 

After his discharge, Raddick had made his fortune as a consultant to private military contractors and corporations. The CIA and the State Department kept a close watch on him. But apparently, not close enough. He turned to real estate, and began building turnkey bunkers for the ultra wealthy. Impenetrable doomsday fortresses for CEOs, tech billionaires, and even government officials. Of course, he built one for himself. But Raddick had taken things to the next level and started his own tribe. And he had become a little unhinged. With resources, knowledge, and power he had now become a tyrant.

Steele programmed Raddick's profile into the bumble drone. He activated the assassination protocol. One thing was for certain—after tonight, Raddick wouldn’t be able to influence anyone. 

*****

Parker eyed two 55 gallon blue plastic drums. They were sitting in the storage area and held purified rainwater. Clean water was one of the most valuable commodities in the containment zone. Between a bar of titrillium and a barrel of water, Xavier would take water every time. 

“Can I borrow those?” Parker asked, pointing at the barrels. 

“Borrow?” Xavier replied, skeptical. 

“More like an indefinite loan.” Parker grinned. 

“Well, I hate to waste water, but by this time tomorrow, we should all be out of the containment zone.”

Parker smiled hesitantly. It was a look that cast serious doubt on Xavier’s optimistic view. 

She and Xavier rolled the barrels from the storage area and emptied them. Xavier tried to divvy out rations first so it wouldn’t go to waste. Then they filled them with pellets of ammonium nitrate. Parker added several gallons of diesel fuel and mixed the concoction. She sealed the lids on tight and Xavier, and a few others, helped move them by the entrance to the basement. 

The plan was to use the scrapyard as a staging area. They would transport the IEDs there, change the tire out on the Vantage 250, then load the bed with the barrels of ANFO. Then prime the charges for detonation.

It was always preferable to carry out any type of covert operation after dark. But the infected seemed to be more active at night. Their eyes seemed to be more sensitive to light, and they had better visual acuity in the dark. The streets were already starting to get thick with lurkers as Xavier and his men loaded the explosives into a truck. They had been scavenging gasoline and diesel from every source imaginable. Syphoning from cars, gas stations, lawn mowers—anything. The Toyama Rumbler truck was fueled and ready to go.  It was a late-model 4x4 with massive tires.  But with a thick coat of grime it was hard to tell what color it was. Steele guessed maybe a lapis green, but he couldn’t be sure. He was more focused on the group of infected plodding toward them.

Steele slashed a few that stumbled too close. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind anyone, but do not fire a shot until Cole and Andrew take out the guard towers. We don’t want to let anyone know we’re coming.”

“What if we’re about to get eaten, and there’s no other choice?” Finn said.

Steele glared at him. “Don’t let it come to that.”

“You said the tire is blown out. Do you recall the bolt pattern on the truck?” Xavier said.

“Not really,” said Steele. “ Five or six, maybe.”

“What type of truck is it?”

“An older Vantage 250.”

“That’s a six bolt,” Xavier said, scanning the database in his head. 

Steele lifted an eyebrow, wondering how Xavier could be so sure. 

“I worked on cars for 20 years. I still own my repair shop, but I let my employees do my dirty work.” Xavier smiled. “The shop has weapons and some basic supplies. It’s a temporary shelter in case things go south here. But it’s not sustainable long term. And not very secure.” Xavier grabbed a jack and a tire iron from the Toyama. “Come with me. There’s a Vantage on the next street over, if I recall correctly.”

Parker kept an eye on the Rumbler as Steele escorted Xavier to the donor truck. He hacked and slashed lurkers that crossed their paths. Fifteen minutes later, the two were rolling a full size spare back to the Rumbler. 

“This ought to fit.” Xavier said, hefting the tire into the Rumbler’s bed.

“If it doesn’t, we’re in trouble,” Steele said.

Cole, Andrew, and Parker climbed into the back of the truck. Delroy hobbled out of the basement and staggered up the steps to the street. He was using his rifle as a cane.

Steele frowned at him. “I said you’re sitting this one out.” 

“At least let me watch from the sidelines, Chief,” Delroy said. He had those sad puppy dog eyes. “Look, I’m almost as good as new.” Delroy put a little weight on his bad leg. He tried to hide his grimace, but he didn’t do such a good job of it. 

A bone bag had limped perilously close to Delroy. The thing was drooling and one eye was hanging out of the socket, dangling like a pendulum. You could almost smell its necrotic breath.

“Take it out,” Steele commanded.

Delroy snapped up his weapon and cracked the stiff in the skull with the butt of the rifle. The lurker tumbled backward as Delroy hobbled around. But  the  infected man wasn’t finished—he regained his footing and started marching toward Delroy again. Another crack in the forehead sent the bone bag crashing to the ground. Delroy pile drove his weapon into the thing’s skull, splitting it in half. Blood oozed onto the concrete. Delroy’s rifle was coated with the sludge.

“Alright. Get in the truck,” Steele said.

 Delroy grinned from ear to ear.

*****

The rain had stopped, but the sky was still thick with clouds. No moon was shining through. It was going to be a dark night—just the way Steele liked it. The darker the better, he thought. His tactical goggles were equipped with night vision. He was pretty sure that Raddick's men would have night vision as well. They seemed to be pretty well outfitted.

At the scrapyard, Xavier looked over the black 4x4. It didn’t look terrible, but it wasn’t going to win a beauty contest. The front fender was buckled and the grill was smashed out. The left headlight was obliterated. The hood was dented in the distinct shape of a telephone pole. 

“Does it run?” Xavier asked, doubtful.

“It did earlier,” Steele said.

 Then Xavier knelt down and climbed underneath the vehicle. “Radiator’s cracked. Leaking oil. The oil cooler is probably toast.” He slid out from underneath the truck. “My guess is it’s got some transmission issues as well.” He wiped his grimy hands on his pants leg.

“It’s not like you have to drive cross country,” Steele said.

Xavier frowned.

“Look, take whatever you’re comfortable with. But if you don’t take this truck, they are going to be shooting at you the minute you come around the corner. It’s your call.”

“Let’s get the new wheel on and see if this thing will crank up.” Xavier grabbed a jack from the Toyama. Within a few minutes, he replaced the rim and tire. The sizing was a perfect match. 

They transferred the barrels of ammonium nitrate and fuel oil to the black 4x4. Parker prepped the detonators, and the Vantage 250 was ready to go. But would it start? The moment of truth was fast approaching.

Andrew climbed up the scrapyard conveyor that Steele had used earlier as a lookout. From there, Andrew would have a clear shot of the southwest turret towers. Steele just hoped Andrew was a good enough shot. 

Cole headed out to take his position at the paper mil. He had a Winchester .300 magnum hunting rifle strapped to his back and a machete in his hand. The paper mill was a little over a mile away. There would be no way to know if he made it to his position. Steele had imposed a communications blackout for the entire mission. Z-SOC would quickly intercept and locate any transmissions emanating from within the containment zone. Even scrambled, sub-frequency transmissions could be identified and decoded by Z-SOC. 

Xavier approached Steele. “If I’m the one driving this truck, I get to pick who detonates the bomb.”

Steele nodded. “Fair enough.”

Xavier pointed at Delroy.

“Yes,” Delroy said, gloating. 

Steele rolled his eyes. “Fine.
 

Delroy smiled with glee.

“It’s going to take 15 minutes for us to get into position,” Steele said. “Then start your approach.”

Xavier nodded.  

Steele could see the fear in his eyes. “Last chance to back out.” 

THE ENGINE SPUTTERED, and the Vantage limped along like a buffalo with broken legs. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but at least it was moving forward. For now.

Xavier drove, and Delroy rode in the passenger seat. The plan was to drop him off just before making the left turn onto Norfolk Avenue. Delroy would wait in the wings, and when Xavier was clear, blow the IED.

Steele, Parker, and Finn had circled back around, traveling up Clinton Drive. They followed the railroad tracks east for a bit. Then snaked their way to the north field behind Raddick's compound.

The field was dense with trees and thick underbrush. The whole area was dirty and industrial. Rusted out pieces of equipment. Piles of concrete rubble with spikes of rebar stabbing skyward. The whole east side of town looked post-apocalyptic
before
the apocalypse. It looked even worse now.

It was almost pitch black, but night vision lit up the area brighter than day. The tactical  goggles were an optical information center. Facial recognition, motion tracking, range finding, and a 20,000x digital zoom. Brainwave sensors allowed the user to interface with the device effortlessly. Want to look closer at something? Just think about looking closer, and the optics zoom in. 

From the edge of the field, Steele could see the  north side guard towers—one on each corner. He wanted a closer look, and the goggles’ optics gave him exactly what he wanted. In the westside tower, a man with a beard, wearing a straw cowboy hat, was smoking a cigarette. He looked bored to tears. In the east side tower, an older guy, with salt-and-pepper gray hair, was dozing off. 

These guys didn’t see a lot of action. In the early days, yes. There had been bands of roving marauders looking to take whatever they could get. But several months of trying to survive in the quarantine zone had weeded many people out. There just weren’t many roving gangs of marauders left. What the infected didn’t kill, Raddick and his men did. For these men in the guard towers, night watch was just an opportunity to sleep, or get drunk, or get high. They certainly weren’t scanning the field with night vision, looking for special forces.

Steele found the sloped metal doors that led to the bunker’s escape tunnel. They were rusted and overgrown with weeds and vines. Steele knelt down and grabbed the door handle. Parker aimed her rifle just in case someone was waiting on the other side.