Dead Team Alpha: A Post Apocalyptic Thriller Read online

  So what or who is it?

  Lazzar stands and slowly walks her way back to the silo hatch. Her back bumps up against the side of the hill and she eases herself into the opening. The lightning flashes once more and the area in front of her is empty, no sign of the phantom form. Being a ten year veteran Mate, Lazzar knows better than to think she made it all up in her head. She saw something, that’s for sure.

  Risking a quick glance, Lazzar looks behind her and notes her position to the hatch. The sky above her booms with thunder just as another lightning flash fills her sight.

  She has no time to scream before the blade pierces her throat. The sounds she makes as she collapses to the wet ground are nothing but surprised gurgles from choking on her own blood. The blade is yanked back and is flicked to the side, sending splatters of blood mixing with the fresh rainwater.

  Lazzar looks up at her attacker and the final thoughts that go through her head are, “What’s wrong with its face?” Then the life leaks out of her and her eyes glaze over as her last breath wheezes from between her bloody lips.

  ***

  Folding his legs under him, and careful that his knees don’t bump the beeswax candles that surround the large map, Cook grabs a seat next to TL Mills on the floor.

  “Spill it,” Cook says.

  “Huh?” TL Mills asks, not taking his eyes off the paper before him. “Spill what?”

  “Whatever it is you aren’t telling the team,” Cook says. “How long have I been a Runner with STA?”

  “Long time,” TL Mills replies.

  “And how long have we known each other?” Cook asks.

  “A lot longer,” TL Mills says.

  “So safe to say I know your moods,” Cook says. “And right now you are hiding something. And that something is bugging the shit out of you.”

  TL Mills shrugs. “Not for me to say.”

  “Bullshit, Josh,” Cook snaps. “I was there when you got married and there when Millie was born. We used to tell stories of the Great El and Granny G around the campfire together as kids. If there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you always have something to say.”

  TL Mills looks at the map a while longer, and then finally turns to Cook. “Before we left the Stronghold I walked in on Lee and Mayor Coolidge arguing. I only caught the last couple of words, but what I heard has me more than worried.”

  “And…?” Cook prompts.

  “The commander was telling off Coolidge about something,” TL Mills explains, “something about information being kept from everyone in the Stronghold. They shut up as soon as I walked through the door.”

  “What information?” Cook asks.

  “I don’t know,” TL Mills says, tapping the map, “but my guess is it has to do with the silos. It’s been a long time since Commander Lee last sent STA out to the Silo Park on extended recon missions. The fact that she sent STA out first tells me she expects trouble. This type of sweep and clear job should be for a Beta Team, not an Alpha Team.”

  “Huh,” Cook responds.

  “Yeah, huh, exactly,” TL Mills nods. “It’s not the way the teams work, keeping back intel. Ignorance gets Mates killed. It’s as deadly as a herd of Zs.”

  “All clear,” Morrissey says as he walks into the LCC with Chinn and Blackmore. “LF is secure.”

  Chinn sets the clipboard down on one of the control panels and looks at TL Mills. “We did see some scuffing by one of the ventilation grates.”

  “Scuffing?” TL Mills asks as he stands, his back popping and cracking into place.

  “Jesus, TL,” Blackmore laughs. “If I heard that in a Denver alley I’d think a group of Zs was coming to get me. You’re lucky I didn’t draw down on you.”

  “Give a veteran a break, Blackmore,” TL Mills says. He picks up the clipboard and reads the notation then sets it back down. “Nothing else?”

  “That’s it,” Chinn says. “No signs of anyone. No signs of Zs. Just some scuffs on the wall by a grate.”

  “Could be anything,” Blackmore says.

  “Hmmm,” TL Mills says. “Could be…” He points at Miller and nods towards the door. “Go relieve Lazzar. Chinn, show me the marks. I want to see them for myself.”

  ***

  “There they are,” Chinn says, showing TL Mills the wall. “I’ll give you a boost so you can check the shaft, if you want.”

  “Do that,” TL Mills says, stepping into Chinn’s hands. He’s lifted up to the grate and he scans the shaft with his NVGs. “Looks clean to…wait. Do you hear that?”

  “What?” Chinn asks.

  “Let me down,” TL Mills says and Chinn obliges.

  TL Mills looks up and down the corridor then spots another grate about ten yards away. He walks over to it and cocks his head.

  “Hear that?” TL Mills whispers. Chinn listens, but shakes his head no. “Lift me back up.”

  Again, Chinn laces his hands together and boosts TL Mills up. The sound of quiet scraping reaches Chinn’s ears.

  “I hear that now, TL,” Chinn whispers. “What is-?”

  Blood rains down on the man and he jumps away, letting TL Mills fall to the floor. Sticking from the right eye of the Team Leader’s NVGs is a short, steel rod. The man twitches a couple times, and then stills, black blood pooling around his head. Chinn reaches for his carbine strapped to his back, but screams instead as his hand becomes nothing but pain.

  “What the fuck?” Chinn shrieks as he brings the bloody stump up to his NVGs, the black blood spurting to the rhythm of his heart.

  He starts to scream again, but his throat is slit from ear to ear as a hand yanks his NVGs from his face and grips his forehead. Above, the ventilation grate came flying out of the wall and clatters to the floor next to TL Mills’ corpse. Chinn is tossed aside as a figure drops into the pitch blackness of the corridor, nearly slipping on the blood that is slowly stretching from wall to wall.

  ***

  “Not good,” Delaney says, as she checks her M-4’s magazine and slams it back into place. “That was TL.”

  “Where the fuck is Lazzar?” Blackmore asks. “She should have been back here by now.”

  “Morrissey? I want you to go get Lazzar and Miller,” Delaney orders. “Blackmore? You stay here with Cook. If none of us return in five minutes, I want you and Cook to get the fuck out of here and head for Fort Collins, got it?”

  “Roger that,” Blackmore says. “But do me a favor and come back before five minutes, okay?”

  Morrissey shoves the heavy door open and then stops. Delaney glances over at him and frowns.

  “Morrissey? Get moving, man. We need every hand back… Oh, fuck…”

  Morrissey turns around slowly, his hand clutching a large knife buried in his belly. He looks down at the blade, and the blood leaking from his guts, and then up at Delaney as he falls to his knees. Before anyone can say anything else, his head goes tumbling from his neck and a gust of wind whips into the control center from the outside corridor, blowing out the beeswax candles that illuminate the room.

  “NVGs!” Delaney shouts as she reaches up and yanks hers over her eyes. At the flip of a switch, the LCC is all shadows and green light. A grunt and a splashing sound to her left makes Delaney spin in that direction, her carbine up. “Blackmore? Blackmore, speak to me!”

  The man stumbles into her view, his hands gripped to his throat. He lurches towards her and reaches out with his right hand. As he does, a fountain of blood gushes from his neck. He reels and turns, and the fountain sprays Delaney’s NVGs.

  “Fuck!” she yells as she yanks the goggles from her face. “Blackmore! What the fuck? Blackm-!”

  Everything goes numb as her spine is severed just below her ribs. She wants to reach back and pull out whatever has done the damage, but her arms won’t obey. Helpless, she collapses to the floor, her cheek resting in a pool of warm, slick blood. She wants to speak, wants to scream and shout at the attackers, but all she can do is gasp and struggle for breath. Before it all ends, she hears
a loud grunt and cry of pain, and then the hurried slapping of feet.

  Cook, she thinks. Run, you marvelous bastard, run your ass off.

  ***

  The ground under his feet is nothing but slick mud as the rain pours down from the sky. Cook doesn’t give the horror behind him a second thought, using all of his faculties to concentrate on keeping his footing. The storm rages about him, lightning striking the ground in the distance, then only yards from him. The air is rocked by ear shattering thunder. He can taste the electricity in the air, which to him is horrifyingly similar to the tang of blood.

  Hitting a rise, Cook clambers up a small hill, then slides his way down the other side, letting the mud and gravity do the work for him. He hits the flat ground and his legs keep pumping, not missing a stride. He focuses on the terrain ahead whenever a flash lights up the landscape. In the best of times, navigating the monotonous country that makes up the Silo Park is difficult, but at night in a thunderstorm? Cook is glad for the years of experience he has as a Runner. A rookie would already be lost or have snapped an ankle slipping in the mud.

  His lungs burn and he can feel a cramp starting to stab into his side, but Cook doesn’t stop. He has too many miles to go before he can even think of slowing down.

  So many miles.

  ***

  Cook crests the final ridge before the Fort Collins outpost, his heart sinking as he sees the flames licking the sky as the outpost’s buildings burn, burn, burn.

  His first thought is to hurry down and look for survivors, or at the very least, salvage some supplies. But the shapes on the ground that ring the outpost tell him to steer clear. Cook knows corpses when he sees them, and in the zombie apocalypse, corpses don’t always stay down.

  The sound of the rain almost hides the approaching footsteps, but even nearing full exhaustion, Cook’s senses are dialed up to full. He spins around and slams a fist into a woman’s face just as her blade nicks him on the side. The wound doesn’t feel deep, but pain radiates up his side quickly. He staggers back, his hands clenched to the cut, his knees feeling weak. After only a couple of steps, he falls to his knees.

  “Who are you?” Cook asks as the woman stands over him, her hand wiping away the blood that gushes from her nose. “What do you want?” The light of the flames illuminates her features and Cook gasps. “Dear God, what’s wrong with your face?”

  His head tumbles from his body and rolls down the ridge towards the burning outpost. The rest of him doesn’t move for a good few seconds before the muscles give in and his body crumples into the mud.

  The woman stands over him, her face impassive, completely void of emotion. She reaches up and cuts herself just above her left cheek, directly on the occipital bone of her eye socket. She cuts the other side, leaving a matching slice in the flesh.

  Flesh that has been cut and scabbed over many times. Flesh that surrounds the dark holes where her eyes should be.

  Chapter Two- Induction Junction

  As the sun rises and shines down on the lower slopes of the Rocky Mountains the cock crows, signaling the beginning of the work day for the inhabitants of the Stronghold.

  “SHUT THE FUCK UP, YOU ROTTEN FUCKING BIRD!” a man screams out the window of his house. “FUCKING PISS OFF, YOU WORTHLESS CHICKEN!”

  The man –all sagging, sun-browned skin, average height, bald except for a couple wild patches of salt and pepper hair- stands at the window in nothing but a tattered pair of underwear. He scratches his ass, then lets loose with a wicked fart, sniffing his hand after catching a piece of it.

  “Classy, Dad,” Valencia Baptiste says as she pulls on a sweater made of a surprisingly soft blend of wool and hemp over her t-shirt to fight the late spring chill that still clings to the mornings in the Rockies. “You think you could go sniff farts in your room where the neighbors can’t see you?”

  “Fuck Harmon and Juney Belle,” the man, Collin Baptiste, sneers. “Couple of twats with sticks up their…” He scrunches his face as he searches for the word.

  “Twats?” his daughter offers, grabbing a jug of water from the kitchen counter.

  “Yeah,” Collin nods. “Fucking twats.”

  “Well, I see Harmon is ready to have a morning discussion with you,” Valencia says as she quickly picks up her boots and opens the kitchen door. “Good luck with that.”

  Twenty-two, tall, blonde, dark brown eyes, and built like a dancer that’s all muscles and grace, Valencia Baptiste takes a deep breath of the cool, mountain air and sighs as she watches her neighbor walk toward her.

  Harmon Lindeloff is in his late fifties, short, thick, and “hairy as a badger” his wife, Juney Belle, likes to say. Recently retired from service in the Teams, he’s always taken a liking to Val Baptiste. And has always taken a severe disliking to her father.

  “Val,” Harmon Lindeloff nods as he steps over the bent and broken picket fence that separates the neighbors’ yards. “Gonna have a word with your dad.”

  “I figured, Har,” Val says as she hops on one foot while pulling on a boot. “Word of warning, he’s been drinking the hooch all night. Never went to sleep.”

  “Fuck,” Harmon frowns. “I thought Bullet was all out.”

  “Cranky just finished a new batch,” Val says as she works on the other boot. “Dad was first in line.”

  “Holy hell,” Harman says as he rubs his tired face. “How much did he get?”

  “I’ll be eating at the barracks for the rest of the month,” Val says, lacing both boots then standing straight and stretching. “Ration tickets are already gone.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Harmon says. “I’ll see if I can find his stash and get some of your tickets back.”

  “Don’t bother,” Val says. “The food’s better at the barracks.”

  “Hey, isn’t today the big day?” Harmon asks. “They pick the new Mates for DTA?”

  “Yep,” Val smiles. “Eight candidates. Just have to get through the Trials and I’m in.”

  “You’ll make it, Val,” Harmon says. “If anyone was born to be part of that Team it was you. Lord knows you’ve had enough fighting experience with that asshole in there.”

  “Careful now, he’s still my dad,” Val says. “But, yeah, he’s a total asshole. Gotta run, Har.”

  “Good luck, Val,” Harmon calls out as he watches the young woman sprint off down the street. He turns back to the rundown house and growls. “Okay, you drunk fuck, let’s do this.”

  ***

  The Stronghold.

  Also known as Boulder, Colorado.

  Or was before Z-Day hit the world close to a hundred years ago and the dead started walking the Earth. No explanation, no warning, just one day corpses began to dig themselves out of graves, sit up in morgues, fight their way our of body bags and caskets. And they were hungry. Attacking the living and feasting off their flesh, the undead, the zombies, the Zs, multiplied quickly as the victims turned and became part of the undead ranks.

  That was a Sunday.

  By Monday evening, the world was lost and those still alive began their never ending fight to survive.

  Many survivors realized that running wasn’t an option and began to fortify their homes, their neighborhoods, their towns. Boulder was a city that decided the undead wouldn’t be allowed citizenship. They fought, they killed, they died, they endured until they were able to push the Zs back and take back most of the city.

  Now, so many decades later, they have the Stronghold locked down tight against the zombie hordes with a system of ditches, barricades, fences, razor wire nets, pits, and other various defenses, all stretched out before a massive wall.

  In the beginning, and for years after, they had power from solar, wind, and geothermal sources, but that’s all gone as parts, and expertise died out; remnants of a dead society left to live on in memories handed down from generation to generation.

  Val jogs past houses with wisps of smoke coming from their chimneys as they start stoves for the morning meal. Everyone gets up when t
he cock crows, ready to begin another day of work and duty, all to keep the Stronghold running and safe. Val waves at familiar faces and calls out to those that address her by name.

  Children rush out of front doors, wooden swords in their hands. They go at each other, emulating the Team Mates they have come to see as heroes. Val smiles, knowing she was once one of those children that wished to be part of the Teams.

  A Mate of Denver Team Beta One, Val Baptiste is in a hurry to get to the Team barracks, and be counted among the candidates for promotion to the elite Denver Team Alpha. Or, as it is commonly called because of the level of shit the Team gets thrown in, and the high casualty rate: Dead Team Alpha.

  But she has to make a stop first.

  ***

  “What?” Stanford Lee mumbles as he feels the hand jostle him over and over. “Go away.”

  “Someone’s at your door,” a voice says sleepily from his side.

  Stanford, twenty-two, tall, muscular, with blond hair like his cousin Val, but instead of brown eyes, he has ice blue ones, slowly pushes up from the mattress tucked into the corner of a bare room. He looks over at the naked young man in bed with him and frowns.

  “What’s your name again?” Stanford asks, feeling like his tongue is made of paste and glass. “Bongo?”

  “Benji,” the young man says, grabbing a fistful of blanket and rolling over, tucking it around his bare ass and legs.

  “Right,” Stanford says. “Benji. New Runner guy. Just moved in a few doors down.” Stanford fumbles through the clothes and trash on the floor and finds a canteen. He tips it up, but only a single drop of water comes out. “Fuck. You got any water over there?”