Battlefield Z (Book 6): Bluegrass Zombie Read online

  "How long?" I croaked and cleared my throat.

  “Your chart says a couple of years. We’ve only seen you for nine months.”

  The purple scar on my head could be that old.

  And self-mutilation would be on my face, my hands, arms and legs where I could see.

  Where I could reach.

  But I couldn't feel his hand on my back.

  Or part of his hand, really.

  The other part was dead. Like I had a strip of skin that no longer felt anything but pressure.

  I concentrated on his touch.

  Fingers, yes.

  Tips pressing against flesh. One. Two.

  Almost three. Thumb. First finger.

  Where were the rest?

  Pressure, sure, but it felt different.

  I needed to see.

  I shifted and turned around.

  "Where are you going?"

  Did he sound worried? I saw his finger flick and one of the orderlies shift away from the nurse’s station.

  I glanced down at my hand.

  There was a burn scar on the back of it, healing but no longer red.

  From a fire trap set for zombies.

  I didn't answer him as I edged back into the bathroom and fumbled the ties of the hospital gown.

  It slid off my neck and dropped on the floor in a puddle at my feet.

  More scars on my chest, a pucker wound.

  That didn't look self inflicted.

  I shifted sideways. Whip scars, red, raised whelps and lines slowly healing. Purple mass of bruises turning green, blue and yellow.

  And burn scars like tiger stripes.

  I couldn't make them all out, they curled around out of my site. I twisted further just to see how far I could see.

  Jeff stood in the door, the orderly at his back. He watched me twist, then smirked when I made eye contact.

  "Be kind of hard to do those yourself, huh cowboy?"

  He reached into the pocket of the white coat and pulled out a plastic tipped syringe. He used his thumb to flip the cap off. It clattered to the floor in front of them.

  "Hold him."

  Tony surged past him and took three steps forward.

  In the spirit of my ancestors, the Scots have fought in kilts for centuries. That meant an army of free balling warriors running into battle.

  Before that, the Picts who settled Ireland would fight in the nude.

  It unnerved the enemy.

  I called upon the ghosts of my warriors, let the orderly take one more step, then tried to kick him in the chin. By way of his groin.

  It wasn't much of a fight.

  It felt like squashing two small oranges in a sack.

  It sounded like it too.

  The man sucked in wind and collapsed. It couldn't even be called the fetal position because babies can't curl up that tight.

  Guess he was free balling too under his white scrubs.

  Jeffrey backed out of the bathroom, and tried to grab the door.

  I hit it with my shoulder, slammed it out of his hand. He dropped the needle and pounded up the hallway.

  I spent a half second deciding if I should pick it up, made a scoop for it and missed.

  Then my feet slapped on the linoleum after him before he could reach another door and lock me in.

  It was tough. I was weak. My muscles weren’t moving like I wanted them to, like I asked them to do.

  My mind was in a fog, but it was burning away in a heat of rage that boiled up out of my gut.

  Drugs, I thought. They drugged me.

  The rage shot adrenaline through my system, and even though I was wobbly, like a foal in spring time, I felt better.

  No, I felt mad.

  Madder.

  I lurched and shambled after Jeffrey.

  If he got help, it was going to be a lot harder to get out of here.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  I followed Jeffrey through the door and pulled up short.

  Mags was waiting for me on the sidewalk, a half dozen Colonel’s at her back. They were armed, but so far nothing was pointed in my direction.

  “Speak of the devil,” she drawled. “And look who shows up.”

  Part of me wanted to cover up, but I’d left the hospital gown in the bathroom. I had no choice but to stand there flapping in the wind.

  “They boy might have been running cause a naked man was chasing him,” Mags laughed. “But if you wanted to chase me some I might get caught.”

  She winked.

  There must have been some motion in it, something I didn’t see because the Colonel’s fanned out to either side of me.

  Still no guns, but hands ready.

  “You want to walk with me?”

  “I don’t have a thing to wear.”

  That made her laugh, but it was a mad sort of giggle, like Mags had lost her mind in the Kentucky bluegrass.

  “Would you feel better in pants?”

  “I’d feel dressed for bear with one of those rifles.”

  She slapped a hand on her hip and giggled again.

  “You must be trying out to be my next husband, because nothing is sexier than a naked man holding a gun, I swear.”

  But she didn’t give me one.

  Instead she nodded to one of the men on my right.

  He took two steps in, pulled an emergency blanket out of his coveralls and tossed it to me.

  I took my time unfolding the mylar blanket, and instead of draping it around my shoulders, wrapped it around my waist like a towel.

  Or kilt.

  A silver space age kilt.

  Mags nodded in approval.

  “Ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  I fell in step with her, though there was distance between us. The Colonel’s packed in tight, this time rifles held ready in case I did something stupid I suppose.

  I thought it was a bit of overkill, you know, drugged up guy wobbling along in a shining shimmery piece of plastic, but I guess they knew something about me.

  “Where are my children?”

  “They’re safe,” she said. “For now.”

  Rage gurgled at the threat.

  But I held it in check.

  “I wonder what you were like before?” Mags pondered.

  It seemed like a rhetorical question so I kept quiet.

  “I was a Mom first, then I started my own business. I made wine in a vineyard a couple hundred miles from here. Can you believe that?”

  I nodded.

  I had no idea what a winemaker looked like, so her being one was as good as gold for me.

  “Got any bottles left?”

  “Sure,” she grinned and watched me from the corner of her eyes. “Got a whole basement full of them. After this is all over, you drop by for a bottle and I’ll give you your pick.”

  “When what is all over?”

  She led me from the courtyard between two wings of the building they called a hospital.

  “This. The zombies.”

  “You think it’s going to be over?”

  “Sure I do. We all do. I’m on the Council here, and we’re waiting for the High Council to rescue us.”

  I wasn’t sure what she was talking about.

  I’d been from Florida to Arkansas and back, and hadn’t seen any sign of authority other than what little potentates were declaring themselves. I just assumed this compound was another one, and her wide eyes and temperament convinced me I wasn’t wrong.

  Until now.

  “I’ve been on my own for awhile,” I told her. “I haven’t been keeping up with the news.”

  “No man is an island.”

  That’s what she said.

  Like she was reading it from a philosophy book or something.

  Her hazel eyes drilled into mine as she pretended to plumb my depths.

  “We’re waiting here,” she said. “The Council has a role to keep our citizens safe until order can be restored.”

  “That’s good,” I told her.


  I wanted her on my side.

  “But you’re a threat to our peace.”

  “I’m not the one who kidnapped a little girl.”

  “Rescued a teenager from a dangerous man.”

  “I’m her father.”

  “Genetics don’t make you any less dangerous,” she corrected me.

  I bit my tongue. It was tough.

  “You had her in some ill conceived plan to kill the walking dead and you set our forest on fire.”

  Spittle flew off her lips as she pivoted and glared at me.

  “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  Killed a couple thousand Z. Moved a threat away from your precious camp. Left that same camp standing.

  “I need to get into that facility.”

  “Why?”

  “It has information I need.”

  “That facility is being cleared out by the Council now. Everything in it belongs to us. For the common good.”

  “I just want some maps from the inside.”

  “No.”

  She said it with finality.

  “No?”

  “Did I stutter?”

  Her eyes flashed and I could see the hint of insanity in them.

  “Why did you drug me?”

  “You’re a test.”

  “A test?”

  “A test.”

  Was she going to tell me what kind of test?

  “Are you testing my kids?”

  The gurgle again, this time stronger. Something must have crossed my face because two of the Colonels lifted their rifles and aimed.

  I held up my hands to show them it was cool.

  “We don’t test children,” she said. “We rescue them.”

  “They didn’t need saving.”

  She sighed as if the weight of the world was on her meaty shoulders.

  “You failed the test,” she said. “We’re turning you loose.”

  Finally, some good news.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Mags led me to the amphitheater where we first met. The stands were empty now, except for a group of men who waited by the gate.

  The gate led to the outside. I could see the forest beyond them as they pulled it open and stared at me.

  “These men are going to escort you through the woods, out of our territory and make sure you never come back.”

  “Without my kids?”

  “They’re staying here where we can keep them safe.”

  I grunted.

  The Colonel’s inserted themselves between us and the men at the gate grabbed me by the arms.

  They need not have bothered.

  The drugs were still pulsing through me, I was still weak. I’m not sure what threat they thought I posed, but they weren’t taking any chances.

  “The Council has decided to let you go,” Mags told me and wiggled her fingers in a childish wave good bye.

  The men at the gate dragged me out and I almost cried out when it slammed closed and a bar fell across it with a loud metal clang.

  They hustled me to the edge of the woods and along a beaten path.

  I could smell the scent of smoke on the air, remnants of my fire maybe, or the forest fire they claimed I set.

  I tried to watch the group around me, head swiveling between the men and the ground, my bare foot swishing under the Mylar blanket.

  I’m not sure how I knew what they planned, but they weren’t going to let me go. Was it the sneer on the face of the one with long greasy hair? The other with the hard looking grimace surrounded by pockmarks?

  I didn’t know.

  All I knew was they were planning to take me out of range of the walls, and put one in my head.

  Go back and tell the kids Daddy is loose and fine and living on his own.

  There are plans and machinations that people put into motion, when all most really want is just a live and let live world.

  The six men trailing after me weren’t going to let that happen.

  They were going to live, and plan for me to die.

  I wondered how long I had before they would make their move.

  I wondered how I was going to get back in to rescue my children. All the fog in my head swirled, while I stumbled along.

  The six men bunched up, three in front, three behind.

  It gave me an idea.

  I tripped, and slowed down.

  The three in front pulled ahead, and the next guy in line behind me reached out to grab my arm.

  They should have tied me up.

  Hell, they should have shot me in the hospital courtyard instead of thinking it was a good idea to get me away from the compound so no one would see their dirty work.

  When he grabbed my arm, I twisted and pulled him off balance. I thrust a fist into his throat, and shoved him back into the other two before he could yell.

  Then I dashed through the trees, zigging and zagging as they yelled behind me.

  It's funny what your mind thinks of as you're running through the woods being chased by armed madmen.

  I remember reading an article about "prepping" or being prepared for the end of the world.

  A lot of those guys had systems, and bunkers, full of weapons and food and plans to survive in a post-apocalyptic society.

  This particular article focused on workouts that would help you survive Armageddon, though it didn't say one word about zombies, not even as a joke.

  Something like, run a really long time to make sure your endurance is ready to go longer than the undead.

  Nope, it skipped that part.

  It talked about CrossFit exercises that would help you chop wood, and carry heavy game back to the bunker.

  Which was smart.

  It also suggested going barefoot as often as possible to toughen up the soles of the feet.

  Because one never knew when the shite was going to punch through the fan, and if you got caught

  with your shoes off, or worse yet, some enterprising bandits decided to abscond with your boots,

  being a shoeless joe wouldn't hamper the escape effort.

  Maybe it wasn't so funny the article was on my mind as I winced my way through the woods.

  My toes hurt.

  My head hurt.

  It all hurt, but the sharp twigs and angry rocks that gashed out for my tender footprints kept my mind on one thing.

  Moving forward so the men after me couldn't catch up.

  I just wished I'd paid more attention to their suggestion.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  We were two miles from the compound.

  I could run it in twenty minutes and still have enough energy to climb wall, find the kids and bust them loose.

  But I needed weapons.

  There was six men between me and the walls and they all had guns.

  Seriously, no one watched Rambo and Die Hard growing up?

  Six against one was nothing.

  A cake walk.

  I leaned against the rough back of the tree and smelled the wet leaves, trying to recall what happened in both.

  I didn’t have a tower to hide in or an elevator to climb in, nor did I hear a waterfall I could jump off of and escape into a deep pool of water.

  All I heard were the men scrambling through the dead leaves as they hunted for me.

  Then I remembered.

  Hunters don’t look up.

  I searched the ground around the tree and picked up a couple of pieces of dead branch. I slid it in the waist at my back and climbed the tree.

  It was not as easy as I remembered from being a kid.

  In the movies, the branch is just in reach and the hero grabs it, vaults to the crown of the tree like Tarzan in his glory days.

  The lowest branch to this tree was fifteen feet off the ground.

  I had to grip the trunk with my hands and forearms, use my feet to push up. Then clench the inside of me feet against the circle of the bole and inch my arms up.

  It did not feel good.

  I m
ade the branch and settled on it to catch my breath and tried to listen.

  The men were closer, moving now toward the noise I made on the tree.

  They would be here any minute.

  I moved up two more limbs and wished for thicker foliage. I wished for bark covered camo that would let me blend into the tree trunk. I wished for a rifle and scope.

  But all I had were six men hunting me and two short pieces of wood.

  Stupid.

  This was a stupid plan and I was a stupid man about to die.

  My kids would be trapped inside the wall and never know. They would think I chose to leave them, chose to abandon them.

  There it was, the gurgle of rage.

  I fed the flames. These men were trying to keep me from my kids. They were trying to kill me.

  I held out one of the sticks and tossed it into another tree past the one I was in.

  It hit with a clack and fell with a clatter.

  That brought two of the men toward me.

  I could hear them approach, trying to be quiet, trying to sneak up on the noise and see what it was.

  They reached the bottom of the tree I was in and did exactly what hunters the world over do.

  They did not look up.

  The only reason anyone looks up into a tree is if they’re hunting squirrel or trying to shoot mistletoe out of the heights.

  That’s it.

  The rest of the time, hunters are searching the sight lines in the woods, which can get confusing and hypnotic with the different patterns created by branches, shadows, wind, and leaves.

  The eye gets lazy and instead of trying to catalog everything, the vision goes sort of soft as the brain searches for anomalies.

  Except they don’t look up.

  I tossed the second branch a few meters to the right and when it hit, they both turned.

  I dropped on top of them.

  I’ve lost a lot of weight since the Zpocalypse. Part of it was starving a lot, but most of it was just sheer movement. The amount of time I spent still on any given day was practically nil.

  But one hundred and seventy pounds dropping twenty feet is a lot of mass to crash down on top of someone.

  I hit with a foot on each of their shoulders.

  It knocked me on my ass because there was no stable surface to land on, but it slammed the first guy into the tree trunk and sent his gun careening.