Free Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse by Shawn Chesser Page B

caught sight of her fingers, puffed
and purple and turning black at the tips. She moaned and pitched forward and,
just as Carson replaced the bag on her lap, let go with a torrent of
jaundice-colored liquid the viscosity of ten-weight motor oil. She heaved and
convulsed and felt the warm bile soaking through the greasy burlap and into her
pants. No time like the present , she thought as she hinged forward and
crushed the soiled burlap between her breasts and knees and flexed her arms in
a calculated and covert effort at loosening the zip tie.
    The crushing backhand came out of nowhere, sending her head
spinning. Then, adding insult to injury, the helicopter abruptly bottomed out,
and with the engine’s whine diminishing, there was the hail-like noise of small
debris pelting the fuselage. The rotor blades overhead slowed to a steady chop
and kerosene-tinged air and dust swirled inside as the pilot in the left seat
unbuckled and exited the gently shimmying aircraft.
    Glancing sidelong at Carson, she realized he’d been ignoring
her. He was looking out the window to his right, and beyond him, through the
hazy swirls on the glass, she could see several more helicopters land and from
them disembarked a half-dozen armed men. She craned her head and was able to
see enough to conclude they were conducting a raid similar to the one on the
quarry. A target of opportunity had presented itself, and like a raven swooping
to collect a shiny bauble, the human predators were on to new prey.
    There were yellow-white flashes lancing from the
mercenaries’ muzzles as they advanced on the log-cabin-like structure. Then a
heartbeat later, Carson’s men fanned out into a rough semi-circle and one of
them began motioning towards the building and yelling what she guessed must be
orders to surrender. And this was confirmed on the back side of that heartbeat
when the front door opened and a grizzled-looking older man emerged, holding
aloft some sort of long rifle, and was instantly cut in half by a hail of
bullets. Jamie closed her eyes and worked on her bonds and asked, “Why?”
    “Because he might have something that we need,”
replied Carson coldly, his eyes glued to the action taking place twenty yards
away.
    “And taking it is OK ... after all they’ve gone through to
survive this long? You just snuff them out like that?”
    “Dead men tell no tales. And they can’t come seeking
vengeance either.”
    “Well that’s where you fucked yourself.”
    “How so?”
    “Because the men you killed ... Logan and Gus—”
    “You mean the homo with the bowler hat?” He paused
for a second and looked out the window, focusing all of his attention on the
two camo-clad men who were dragging a blonde woman along the ground.
    Burning with hatred for the man next to her, Jamie said
nothing. Instead she bit her lip, drawing blood, and leaned forward to get a
better angle on the helicopter that looked strikingly similar to the DHS Black
Hawk parked at the compound.
    “That had to have been Logan,” continued Carson. He
sat back in his seat. Fixed a cold stare on Jamie. “Only a guy named Logan
would feel the need to accessorize to the point of looking like one-half of
Laurel and Hardy.” He shook his head in disgust. “And the handlebar mustache.
G-A-Y.”
    Ignoring the baited trap, Jamie said nothing and watched the
looting taking place, grateful that the raiding party hadn’t dragged out any
young boys or girls.
    Disappointment showing on his face, Carson continued his
verbal barrage. “So, the other one was Gus, eh? Typical middle-aged former cop.
Paunchy around the waist from sitting in a cruiser. Clouded in the head from
toeing the line for most of his adult life. Gotta give it to him, though. He
almost got a shot off. Logan on the other hand ... he wet himself.”
    Pursing her lips to hide the self-inflicted wound, Jamie
said quietly, “Gus was ten times the man you are. And Logan ...” Her voice
trailed off. She ran her tongue over