The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 1): Dead Ascent Page 9

  “We’re going to fortify the cabin as best we can and defend it at all costs. We have a clear field of fire all the way to the wood line. Nothing can come from behind the cabin, and that gives us some advantage.” Brayden gazed around the place, “But first, we need to board up these windows and figure out how to stand guard tonight.” To Barry, he said, “We’ll have to take turns on guard tonight, Barry.”

  Barry nodded. “Okay.”

  “How are you feeling? Think you can stay awake for a while?’

  “Sure,” Barry answered, willing to do his part.

  “I’ll board the windows while you take first watch. Come on, I’ll show you our spot on the roof.” Brayden took out a Winchester .270 rifle he’d taken from the Fish and Game office, looked it over and handed it to Barry. “Be careful, it’s loaded.”

  “It’s just like my dad’s deer rifle,” Barry said, gripping the rifle and looking through the iron sights. Then the light in his eyes faded, and his head dropped as he thought of his old man and a somber realization occurred to him. Dad’s not dead, not exactly. He’s one of them now, one of those monsters…

  Sensing what the boy was thinking, Brayden put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Be strong, Barry. That is what he would have wanted for you. It’s the only way we’ll make it off this mountain alive, son.”

  Barry nodded and fought back tears that Brayden knew wanted to fall. Brayden took Barry to the loft, then out on the balcony, and they crawled over the roof to the other side. Staring out into the darkness, Brayden told Barry, “If they come, I think it’ll be from the woods over there. Maybe up the driveway too. Keep an eye out, and if you feel too sleepy, just let me know. I’ll come and check on you shortly.”

  “I’ve got it,” Barry responded, gazing out into the night at the hellish glow of the coming fire reflecting off the hillside below. His teeth rattled, and not from the cold.

  Brayden climbed over the roof and down the stairs. He decided to check in on Wanda and knocked on the bathroom door. “You alright in there? You need anything?”

  “We’re okay.”

  He returned to the kitchen, dragged the big wooden table into the middle of the room and began to take it apart, but the table was thick, solid oak and he needed a saw. He opened a utility closet and rummaged through it looking for any tools he could use. He found nails, quick dry cement mixture, and to his surprise, he discovered a sledgehammer and a shovel behind some old lanterns and lantern fuel.

  Hefting the sledgehammer, he realized he had found what he needed. It was a ten pounder. Knowing there would be times that a silent kill was needed, he eyed the sledgehammer. It was heavy enough to crush bone, yet light enough to swing accurately.

  Brayden went about his tasks and eventually finished boarding the windows. It had taken a while, but he felt good about the thick wooden slats he had barred the windows with. Wanda was sitting on the couch, tending to the infant and the little girl. He decided to go spell Barry and take the rest of the night watch. Daylight was only a few hours away.

  Crawling across the roof toward Barry proved difficult in the pitch dark while carrying the sledgehammer, but he eventually made it over to the boy and settled in next to him.

  The boy nodded. “It’s kind of peaceful out here.”

  “Go get some sleep while you can, Barry. You’re going to need it.”

  “Okay. I haven’t seen anything yet. Maybe we’ll be safe here for a while?”

  Brayden nodded. “Maybe.” Maybe not…

  Brayden sat watching the edge of the forest far below the moonlit granite slope as Barry scurried over the roof and back into the cabin. Indeed, it was peaceful. Fireflies speckled the dark forest where nothing else moved. There were no sounds but those of the crickets, the occasional croak of a tree frog and the lonesome groans of windswept pines along the ridge, but he knew damn well those abominations would come. The dead walk uphill…

  Three distinct cracks of rifle fire came from somewhere farther down the mountain, echoing and fading away. Brayden gripped the gun tighter than before, wondering who else was out there tonight. He could only imagine the chaos for those that were out there somewhere on the Glassy. He wondered if anyone had survived who weren’t evil, selfish vagrants like those he’d encountered earlier. He spotted cigarette butts from the man on the roof earlier and dug out his own pack, lit a smoke and gazed again across the moonlit granite, thinking things over.

  The cabin could hold off an onslaught of abominations for a while; at least he hoped it could. The granite might be enough of a firebreak to save them, but worse than the fire, he dreaded the inevitable. He knew the things would come, staggering and groaning, from the dark pine forest.

  An hour passed and nothing stirred.

  Brayden’s eyes grew heavy, the serenading crickets’ and cicadas’ gentle drone became the soothing sound of a lullaby, and although he tried to fight off slumber, the night beckoned him into its grasp until he could no longer ward it off.

  Brayden fell asleep.

  November, 9, 5:45 a.m.

  The pain was enough to wake him. Throbbing, pulsing jolts ran up and down the length of his arm. The back of his head throbbed and felt wet. He opened his eyes slowly, and as his vision began to focus, he saw he was lying across the rock shelf below the overlook. He closed his eyes, and opened them again. I’m not dead?

  Gary stood on shaky legs, coughing as he inhaled the smoke that was pouring up the side of the mountain from the gorge below. Still groggy, he momentarily thought he’d awakened in hell. He could see the railing a few feet above him, and realized he had landed on a small rock ledge just below the helicopter pad. The heat from the raging fire below was searing, and through his obvious concussion, he still rationalized that staying here on this ledge meant he’d burn to death. Not liking that option, Gary grudgingly pulled himself up enough to see over the ledge from which he had fallen. Poking his head over the railing, he spotted the helicopter on the small landing pad behind the Fish and Game office.

  As he scanned the area, his vision blurred and then cleared again. He shook his head, trying to clear his concussed mind. He didn’t see any of the infected roaming the building, at least none that were still standing.

  Gazing upon the many corpses scattered and strewn across the walkway leading into the office, he wondered if Brayden James had been there. Maybe they’re held up there? He could feel the heat of the fire below him; glowing ashes swept by, rising steadily in the heated air, and that was enough encouragement to get him moving. He jumped and grasped the bottom rail and painstakingly pulled himself up and onto the ledge of the lookout. He watched for a moment and decided the coast was clear before he crossed over the railing and spilled onto the ground behind the Fish and Game office. He lay there for a moment, exhausted and weak.

  He finally rose, got his footing again and crept across the open area, passed the helicopter, and was approaching the office when he came upon Frank’s nearly headless body. Gary’s heart sank when he saw that Frank was dead.

  Damn.

  Frank had turned, Gary knew…and so will I.

  He looked at his forearm. The wound was already festering, and he felt cold sweat beading across his forehead and back. An idea crossed his fevered mind and he sneered at the thought of it, the dread of doing it, but damn if he wasn’t going to. He entered the office, flicked on his butane lighter and saw the place had already been ransacked for supplies. Brayden had other plans, but where is he holding up? Fear ripped through his chest. No, surely they didn’t get it!

  He turned and waded through the mess, heading to the back of the office. He stumbled through the dark and searched until he found the supply closet next to Frank’s office. As he’d expected, the guns and ammunition were gone, hell, and the vending machine had been ransacked, but what he was looking for was still in the glass case with the fire extinguisher. A demented smile broke out across his ash-smeared and grimy face as he eyed it in the flickering glow of his cigarette lighter.
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  He broke the glass and reached in and took the big red axe by its handle, hefted it in his hand, looking at it through fevered eyes as if it were an old friend. He glanced at the festering bite wound on his forearm and knew what he had to do.

  The elbow joint, he thought. Sever it with one whack. Cauterize the wound afterwards.

  He made his way into the cramped break room area behind Frank’s office, knocking over a water bottle as he did. He finally stopped by the small propane-powered stove they had heated their lunches with for the past twelve years, and switched it on.

  Small blue flames danced around the black iron eyes. He laid the blade of the axe across them. He stared at the blade, watching it heat up until it began to turn a glowing, blazing red. His arm felt hot and pain pulsed from the wound. A trickle of cold sweat ran along the ridges of wrinkled skin of his forehead, down the ridge of his nose, and dripped onto the floor. The ax blazed red.

  It was time to pay the piper.

  Chapter 10

  November 9, 6:00 a.m.

  Brayden’s eyes popped open. The metal roof felt cold against his skin, and the earthy smell of burning timber was strong in his nose. Half asleep, he tried to make sense of this alien environment, and then it all came back to him at once as his mind fully awakened. He was on the roof of the cabin, and had fallen asleep. Shit!

  Cursing himself, he sat up, frantically feeling around for his rifle. A wisp of white smoke wafted over him, and small tuffs of ash drifted by his face. The fire was closer now, a lot closer, and fear clawed at him from deep within. He quickly turned his attention to the wood line. He stared out across the granite, expecting to see a horde of hungry corpses clambering from the forest. But as he scrutinized the forest’s edges, scarcely discernible pines took form, ghostly appearances in the grain of early dawn, but nothing stirred there and he breathed a sigh of relief, knowing how disastrous his blunder could have been.

  Still, he never woke from a sound sleep without a reason, some sound or noise. Years of sleeping in Afghanistan had taken their toll and some habits were ingrained in him even now. The smoke, he decided. His mind had awakened him, responding to a deep-rooted survival instinct: the smell of smoke, of danger.

  He could hear someone stirring inside the cabin. The others were waking up now. Brayden fumbled for his smokes, lit a cigarette and stared again at the forest edge. He knew the fire, like the undead, was racing up the mountain, closing in. He hoped like hell the walking corpses had lost the race and had perished once more in the raging flames, but thought it unlikely.

  He was about to take another drag of his smoke when he heard a different sound for the first time. He froze, trying to zero in on the sound, a scratching or shifting of some kind. He heard it again, and realized the sound wasn’t coming from inside the cabin. It was somewhere behind him, on the ground.

  He carefully peered over the edge of the roof to where he’d parked the truck behind the cabin and through the grainy, silvery light of early dawn he watched the ghastly forms of three abominations appear near the truck. He knew then what had awakened him.

  Not wanting to draw the attention of other hungry ears with gunfire, he watched the things for a moment and scanned the area looking for more of them, but they appeared to be alone. Taking the sledgehammer, he slowly scaled the cabin and lowered himself off the lowest point of the roof, landing quietly on the granite below. He began inching his way around the cabin and peeked around the corner at them.

  Two of them were near the truck. The other one, a large black man with long, matted-looking dreadlocks, was lingering near the side of the cabin, close enough that Brayden could hear his ragged breaths. Brayden ducked his head back behind the wall and tightened his grip on the sledgehammer. His muscles tense, he took a breath and readied himself. Here goes, he thought as he stepped out toward the two by the truck. Moving swiftly, he swung the sledgehammer up and stepped into the swing.

  The closest abomination had just turned toward him when the thing’s face split with a sickening sound like a bursting ripe melon. Its body folded inward like a collapsing accordion and sank to the ground. The other one screeched and lunged for him. Brayden spun and swung the hammer at a sidelong angle and connected with the thing’s temple, nearly taking its head off with it. When he tried to pry the hammer loose from the badly misshapen head, it wouldn’t budge.

  His shoulder sent hot waves of pain down the length of his arm and he stifled a cry. He put his foot on the thing’s disfigured head and strained with all he had to pull the hammer loose, but it barely moved at all. Then a huge black hand clamped down on his shoulder and a raspy squeal erupted in his ear along with a blast of putrid, cold breath.

  Brayden spun away just as teeth snapped shut where his face had been. The thing had hold of his shirt and Brayden struggled to break free. His feet became tangled, and his momentum sent him sprawling across the granite. The undead thing pounced for him, howling like an enraged animal. Brayden rolled out of the way as the thing slammed to the ground next to him.

  Brayden sprang from the ground and made a mad dash for the sledgehammer. He snatched the handle hard, twisting it as he did. The angle at which he jerked the handle broke the hammer free from the thing’s badly fractured skull with a sickening slurping sound just as the big thing got its footing and lurched forward, howling and moving with some semblance of fluidity.

  Despite the pain pulsing through his injured shoulder, Brayden brought the hammer up and over his head. Brain matter dripped from the sledge as he stepped into the swing and slammed home the business end across the thing’s forehead. Although the heavy sledgehammer found its mark, he was too close and didn’t get enough force behind the blow to break through the thing’s thick skull. The blow snapped the thing’s head back and was enough to stagger it backward a few steps, but not enough to put it down.

  Brayden backed away, lowered the sledgehammer, and with a roar, he swung it up as he stepped into it again. This time he had the distance and strength to finish the job thoroughly. The sledgehammer burrowed to the handle in the crown of the monster’s cranium and brought the abomination down for good.

  Approaching footfalls came from somewhere behind him, and Brayden spun around, raising the sledgehammer, ready to do battle. He relaxed as he saw Barry running toward him, shotgun raised and ready. Barry’s eyes darted from side to side in a panic, scanning the area. “Are there any more?”

  “I don’t think so,” Brayden replied, heart pounding against his chest like a caged animal trying to escape. He took a knee next to the dead thing, catching his ragged breath. “The big one damn near got me.”

  The morning grew brighter around them. The smoke had grown much thicker now, a heavy white haze billowing over the horizon. “It’s coming, Barry. Let’s dump these three over the edge and get back inside.”

  He watched the last of the things’ body bounce off the granite, flipping end over end until they slammed into the craggy rocks below the cliff. As he and Barry made their way back around the cabin, a hot wind blew across the mountaintop. Dust swirled and smoke stung their eyes. Brayden turned to see Barry had turned white as a ghost. His mouth agape, he pointed toward the forest. “They’re coming!”

  Brayden turned, shielding his eyes from the smoke, surveying the scene. Flames had begun licking at the tall pines at the edge of the granite, engulfing some of the things completely. From the billowing smoke, howls and gargled screams erupted. Some of the things were smoldering, some fully ablaze, but they were indeed coming.

  “Get in the cabin!” Brayden yelled. “Now! Move, Barry!”

  Choking on the ashes and smoke, they ran for the front door. Glancing back, Brayden glimpsed what appeared to be thousands of the undead moving relentlessly through the raging fire, howls erupting from their smoldering corpses. He wished he hadn’t looked.

  With the howls of the dead in their wake, Brayden and Barry raced into the cabin as Wanda held the door open for them. Wanda stood speechless, holding the shotgun B
rayden had given her the night before in one hand and cradling the baby with the other. The little girl they’d rescued was sobbing now, still sitting with her knees drawn up to her chest on the couch, shaking her head and mumbling incoherently. Brayden checked over a Winchester .270 and shouted for them all to get to the upstairs loft.

  As Wanda took the baby and the girl up the stairwell, Brayden grabbed the thick wooden bar and slid it in the slats, barring the door, and then slid the couch against it for good measure. Once he was satisfied the cabin was shut tight, he grabbed the sledgehammer and his rifle and climbed the stairwell to the loft.

  Brayden crawled across the roof, took aim at a smoldering corpse and squeezed off a shot that disintegrated the thing’s head. Barry soon joined him and took aim at the horde of the undead and fired repeatedly, but there were more than they could ever hope to stop. As the realization hit him, Brayden decided to prepare for the worst. Turning back toward Wanda, he pointed to the sledgehammer and yelled, “The staircase! Break it loose. If they get up here, we’re done for!”

  Wanda’s eyes were as big as quarters, but she did as he asked. She returned to the sleeping loft and began to smash the black iron staircase with the sledgehammer until the screws holding the thing to the framework of the cabin began to splinter loose. With a final swing, she broke the staircase free. It teetered in place, suspended in midair briefly until she kicked it over. The staircase fell against the opposite wall and eventually crashed to the living room floor.

  As fast as Brayden and Barry could shoot them, the dead were replaced with others. A group of shambling corpses had made it to the granite field, and was clambering toward the cabin. Some were already pounding at the cabin walls and door when Barry heard the awful sound of metal clicking against an empty chamber.

  “I’m out of bullets!”

  “Here!” Brayden took a clip from his vest and tossed it to Barry. “Keep shooting! When they get close enough, switch over to the shotgun again.”