Grunt Traitor by Weston Ochse Read Free Book Online

universe of my NVD. “Listen, Dupree. This is real. Snap out of it.”
    No reaction.
    I slapped him. Then I slapped him again. I was about to slap him for a third time when he stopped my hand.
    “Stop slapping me.”
    “Are you back?”
    He nodded and licked dry lips.
    I pulled a canteen free and gave it to him.
    He opened it and took a tentative sip, then slung back some more. He closed and returned it, then made a disgusted face. “I froze back there.”
    “Yes. You did.” I wasn’t about to give him a break. “We can’t have that.”
    He shook his head. “No, we can’t. It just happened so fast.”
    “It always happens fast.” I grabbed him by the collar. “Listen to me. From now on, if I do something, you copy it. Whenever something happens, look to see what I’m doing. Got it?”
    He nodded.
    I slapped him on the shoulder, then said, “Let’s see what we have here.” I knelt at the body. Caucasian, about forty years old. Plain features with a Fu Manchu mustache. Nose had been broken. He was bald beneath his do-rag. He still gripped the .357 Ruger Blackhawk. I removed the pistol and then took off the holster and put them in a pile. He carried a cell phone, which I found strange. It must have been out of habit. He had a ring of keys, which I also placed in the pile. He had a boot pistol; I didn’t recognize the model, but it was a pearl-handled chrome derringer with two barrels filled with .22 long rounds. I rolled him over and saw the words Devil’s Thunder wrapped around a stylized devil head with crossed lightning bolts behind it. I took the jacket as well.
    I checked the bike next and noted its bulging saddlebags. On the left were foodstuffs. On the right were clothes and survival gear. He’d had enough food to last a week, as long as he could find a water source. Was he supposed to be a lookout? Was Devil’s Thunder expanding their territory, or had they already?
    I removed the saddlebags and tossed them deeper into the woods. I placed the pistols in my pack and shoved the biker’s vest into Dupree’s hands.
    I glanced at the body. We’d been on the ground for less than fifteen minutes and we’d managed to kill someone. I couldn’t help but smile. Things were looking up already.

 
It is easier to find men who will volunteer to die, than to find those who are willing to endure pain with patience.
Julius Caesar
     
     
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
     
    T HE MOTORCYCLE ALLOWED us to cover a lot more distance than had we been on foot. Instead of leaving the mountains, we took advantage of their cover. At the end of Mount Baldy Road, we headed back up, taking Cobal Canyon Mountainway. My goal had been to get us to Marshall Canyon Golf Course before sunrise, which would put us thirty miles from the 605—the supposed infected zone. On the mountain roads we passed several campfires, but never stopped to see who was there. Once, we saw oncoming lights, and I was able to slip the bike into some trees. Four motorcycles and a truck roared by, heading back the way we came. I wasn’t able to see if any of them were wearing Devil’s Thunder vests. They could have been anyone. Still, we didn’t want any interaction. We just wanted to get in and out as fast as we could.
    We arrived at the course about 4 AM. We’d killed the engine on the bike half a mile out and coasted the rest of the way in. I didn’t see any lights in the clubhouse or hear any sound, except for the bubble of a brook somewhere. I parked the bike about thirty meters away from the clubhouse and had Dupree stand watch while I did recon.
    Skirting around the outside I peered in the windows, listened for any sound, and continually sniffed the air, trying to get the scent of food, or cigarettes, or sweat. But there was nothing here. I’d hoped we’d have the place to ourselves, and it looked as if we would.
    I returned to the bike, but I didn’t see Dupree anywhere. I went to one knee and began to scan the area. I’d been gone fifteen minutes.