Rotting to the Core (Keep Your Crowbar Handy Book 2) (23 page)

“I got to spend the majority of that time
with you,” he replied. “Mostly in rather small, enclosed
spaces.”

“You smooth talker, you.” She smiled, pushed
away, and took a few steps back. Going to her knees, the redhead
placed her hands on the surface of the roof behind her feet and sat
back on her heels, all the while giving him a
Come hither.
Now!
look.

Perfectly willing to take yes for an answer,
he rose from the air vent and moved to stand in front of Laurel's
half-reclined form. She reached up to take his hand and pulled Jake
down until he was kneeling over one of her thighs.

“Well,” she said, sliding her hips up towards
his, “since you said
almost
perfect, I think we should get
in some practice time. Wouldn't you agree?”

* * *

“So they've been together what, just over a
month?” Penny asked, powering her way through the last of a beef
brisket MRE.

“Yup. At least, that's what Uncle George
tells me,” Bee mumbled around her Chicken-a-la-King. “From the way
the two of them act though, you'd think Laurel and Jake were still
in the initial 'cuddly' phase. They're constantly holding hands, or
making doe-eyes at one another, or keeping the rest of us awake
with all the heavy breathing...”

The pair sat on the walkway which encircled
the old DHL air traffic control tower, finishing off their
questionable 'government issued nutrition' while Elle Pierce
scanned the fence-line. Eye glued to the Barska 10x36 scope a-top
one of Foster's Heckler and Koch, Long-Arm sniper rifles, the
blonde-haired Sergeant had been searching for any stray zombies for
some target practice. She felt a bit rusty and, since the old man's
rifle came equipped with a handy-dandy noise suppressor, had
decided to get in some quality 'trigger time'.

Bee raised a pair of binoculars—Barska, of
course. Her uncle was nothing if not consistent—and tracked them up
the road outside the airport's front gate. Penny Carson choked back
a laugh at the sight of the nineteen-year old, ex-college co-ed
with those enormous glasses in front of her face. They made her
look like your run-of-the-mill bug-eyed alien. Albeit, a damned
sexy one.

Beatrix Foster was put together like a lonely
man's wet dream. Twenty-two, the face of a naughty cherub, big blue
eyes, green hair—green? Penny thought, oh well, Kat's was blue—done
up in two, long pigtails Anime style, and (as Allen so succinctly
put it)
smoking,
fucking hot. If her measurements were
anything but 36, 23, 32, Penny would eat her hat. If she'd still
had a hat, that is. A stray ghoul had taken a bite out of the brim
a few weeks prior, so she'd tossed it in the dumpster behind
Rebecca's grainery, along with the rest of her Sheriff’s
uniform.

“There's one at the truck stop,” Bee said,
still chomping away on a cube of processed chicken.

“Where?” Elle angled the scope towards the
location.

Bee swallowed. “Over by the toilets. Near
that big orange Freightliner.”

Elle adjusted her aim and picked out the
tangerine-colored semi cab. “Ah, got it. The one wearing a stupid
looking hat that says 'Show me your tits'?”

“That's the one.” Bee confirmed. “Give me
just a second.”

She handed her binoculars to Penny, pointed
in the general direction of the truck stop so Carson could observe
the results of Elle's shot, and rose to stand to the Sergeant’s
left. It wouldn't do for Bee to stand on her right side. The spent
casing generated by Elle's sending a hollow-point 'Hello' to the
zombie trucker would eject in that direction.

“Okay. Whenever you're ready,” Beatrix told
her.

Elle took a deep breath, exhaled slowly as
she placed the scope's cross-hairs just below the zombie's jaw to
account for recoil, then slowly squeezed the weapon's trigger.
There was a muted 'Pppht', no louder than the sound of someone
stifling a good cough, and Penny saw the distant creature's head
explode like a firecracker-stuffed cantaloupe. The zombie's head
simply disappeared as the .308 Winchester round pounded through its
skull, going on to shatter the large front window of the truck
stop. The now-headless body took a pair of drunken steps to the
rear before hitting the ground butt-first, then collapsed to the
pavement leaking putrid body fluids from the stump of its neck.

“Da-a-a-am.” Penny whistled in admiration.
“Nice one.”

“Thank you. I try.” Elle smiled into the
scope of her Long-Arm. “That's the sixth one today. Awesome
splatter pattern this time. I'm gonna try to hit one in the throat
next. See if I can get one of the things heads to pop off and still
make the kill? That should be a bit more challenge… What the hell
are you doing?”

Penny lowered her binoculars and turned to
see Beatrix, who'd been standing beside her, finish lowering her
shirt.

“Just giving that one a proper send off.” Bee
tucked her tank top back into her pants.

“What?” Penny asked.

Bee hooked a thumb in the direction of the
truck stop. “His hat, you know?”

It took a moment for Penny's brain to process
that one. “Did you just flash your tits at a zombie?”

“Thought it was only polite. I mean, it
probably would've been his last wish anyway.” Taking in the other
two women's unbelieving expressions, Bee made a rude noise and
leaned against the outside of the control tower. “Seriously, guys?
What, neither of you ever went to Florida for Spring Break?

“I enlisted right out of high school.” Elle
shook her head and went back to looking through the rifle
scope.

Penny nodded reluctantly. “I did, once. But I
didn't do anything like that.”

“That's nothing.” A wicked grin spread across
Bee's face. “You should see what I did on the
College Girls Gone
Crazy
Fifteen
DVD.
That
was a fun time.”

Elle focused downrange, searching for another
target. “I don't want to know. And don't ever let your uncle find
out. George would pop a blood vessel in his brain, right
there.”

“I could stand to hear a little more.” Penny
looked quite interested over the idea of hearing about Beatrix's
exploits.

Bee stuck her tongue out at Elle's profile
and returned to her seat on the walkway.

“Okay, you’ll love this,” she began. “The
first time I chug-a-lugged too many Yeager Bombs, I ended up in the
hotel pool with—”

“
Calling any crew member of the Screamin' Mimi, do you copy?
Over...”

Jake froze. After a memorable couple of hours
on the hangar's roof with Laurel in her most wanton state (which
was
absolutely
incredible), he'd felt ready to take on the
endless hungry hordes and send their rotting asses back to
whichever level of hell had spawned them.

The remainder of the day he'd spent going
over the notes George had taken during the questioning of (the now
deceased) Henry, and reviewing satellite imagery of the Cincinnati
Gas and Electric Lake facility.

That had been a surprise. Foster had long
told them that the World Wide Web was, as he so eloquently put it,
fucked. That without all the wonks turning the dials and pushing
the buttons, the days of real-time Intel were as dead as the
Dodo.

That had proven not to be the case. Three
years prior, Rae informed them, the United States and Japan
(reacting to the growing threat posed by China) had put a series of
satellites into high, geostationary orbit. The delivery vehicles
were launched from New Zealand of all places, with the aid of the
NZSIS (New Zealand Security Intelligence Agency). Basically, their
version of the CIA. Though laughed at by those in the intelligence
community, the NZSIS had done a bang up job clandestinely sending
eleven, sixty-three meter, Delta-4 rockets blasting skyward through
the stratosphere.

Georges counterpart told him (after calling
him a crotchety, old ass) when he scoffed at the idea, as long as
her PAPSA satellite transmitter was active, and as long as it was
linked to the secure facility in Groom Lake, NV, and since she
actually had the clearance to access the systems (unlike a certain,
crotchety old ass), she would be able to see what the men guarding
the Gas and Electric Lake grounds had for dinner. By reading the
labels on their MRE packages.

She did too; all the while wearing what Jake
thought was a very sexy smirk. One had chicken-a-la-king; his
partner had spaghetti and meatballs.

Foster made a comment that everything was
easier before women could vote.

Rae answered with one about some men only
thinking with the wrong “head”.

Jake firmly (and loudly) changed the subject.
You just
knew
some conversations wouldn't go anywhere
good.

Since the Beechcraft’s previous home was far
more suited to habitation, Rae left her laptop in the Mimi, to
automatically access the satellite network once every half hour,
while they planned. They took turns retrieving the images from the
compact printer/scanner combo she had installed, back before the
destruction of her junkyard cache, trying to find patterns in the
movements of those inside. Using the photos and other Intel
(facility layout, choke-point locations, known defenses, and, more
importantly, the number of infected in the area), they'd been
attempting to come up with a plan to rescue Karen. Or at least one
that didn't involve just using the Mimi to ram their way into the
compound, shooting the shit out of anything that moved, while not
being eaten by the hundreds of zombies (currently roaming outside
its walls) who were sure to follow them inside.

It had been Jake's turn to retrieve the
printouts, which was why he was currently standing with his mouth
hanging open in the drive segment of the enormous, pink
transport.

“
Calling any crew member of the Screamin'
Mimi, do you copy? Over...”

He was so stunned to hear another living,
humans voice (other than one of his companion's), that the
transmission repeated twice more before he picked up the mic to
reply.

“This is the Screamin' Mimi. We read you,
over...”

The voice responded almost immediately.
“
Screamin' Mimi. Hold a moment for further contact
...”

A minute or so later, another voice came over
the radio. This one was a confident, gravelly baritone. “
With
whom am I speaking, over?”

“No offense, but how did you know our
vehicle's name? Over...” The writer asked.

“
Identify yourself.”
The voice
ordered.

“I'm Batman,” Jake said, frowning, “who are
you? Over...”

There was a pause on the other end of the
signal. “
Ah. You would be Jake O'Connor then. The sarcasm was a
dead giveaway.”

“How do you know my name? Over...”

“
Oh, I know quite a bit about you,
Jacob,”
The voice came off as amused now. “
You and your
party. You can dispense with the “overs”. There's no one else
transmitting even remotely nearby to either of our positions, so I
think we can determine which of us is speaking. Oh, and to answer
your previous inquiry, young Miss Karen has been quite helpful in
supplying answers to my questions.”

Jake's blood froze. He slowly lifted the mic
back to his lips. “Poole.”

“
You know of me as well? Excellent. I
believe it's important for men in our situation to be
acquainted.”

“And I believe you're a piece of shit.” Jake
said, completely unimpressed by the man's appeasing manner. It
reminded him of every telephone service rep he'd ever spoken with.
Full of false enthusiasm and more than willing to watch you drown
in a pool of your own vomit, if given half a chance.

The voice tisked at him. “
Jacob, such
language. There's no reason we can’t be civilized about this. We're
both reasonable men—”

“I'm sorry,” he interjected, “reasonable??
Reasonable
men don't kidnap teenagers.
Reasonable
men
don't have their butt-buddies attack and burn down buildings full
of people.
Reasonable
men don't let their cronies try to
rape and torture for amusement.”

“
Since you know my name, I assume you
learned it from one of my men,”
Poole replied.
“Tell me, is
he still among the living?”

That wasn't something the writer was going to
discuss again. Ever. And if he did, he sure as hell wouldn't be
doing it with someone like Poole. “He was shot trying to
escape.”

“
Jacob, Jacob... I'm sure that was the
case.”

“What do you want, Poole? I have better
things to do.”

He heard the other man sigh. “
That's the
problem with people today. No patience whatsoever... Alright then,
I'll get right to the point. You're going to bring yourselves and
that excellent vehicle of yours, here to my locatio—”

The writer laughed into the mic. “Are your
feet wet?” he asked.

“
Excuse me?”

“Can you see the pyramids?”

Poole's voice sounded confused. “
I'm
not—”

“You're standing hip deep in De-nial,” The
unruly-haired man told him. “There's no fucking
way
I'd come
walking in and surrender to you, let alone bringing you any of our
group, or the Mimi. If that's what you're wanting well, people in
Hell want ice water, too.”

“
That's unfortunate, Jacob. It may just
make me reevaluate exactly what kind of man you are. Come now.
Haven't you given any thought to what might happen to young Miss
Parker if you fail to comply with my request?”

It felt like Jake's stomach was headed for
the molten center of the earth. “You don't want to hurt her,
Poole.”

“
Of course not.”
The hatemonger's
voice actually held some surprise.
“I take no pleasure in
harming children. Dear Karen is a fine young lady, after all. A
shining example of both intelligence and conscience in what used to
be our society. But both you and I know, the world is no longer
what it once was. In such situations as ours, every resource must
be fully utilized. Especially if that resource is a lovely young
woman”