The Renegades 2 Aftermath (A Post Apocalyptic Zombie Thriller) by Jack Hunt Read Free Book Online Page B

the mud as Izzy gunned it out of there. It was only when we were a short distance down the street that our stomachs sank.
    “Did you get the weapons?” Dax asked.
    “No. We checked inside,” Specs replied. “They were gone.”
    “Great, so all we have is two handguns, two assault rifles, and minimal ammo.”
    “We still have a dildo!” Baja said, lifting it in the air like the sword of King Arthur.
    “Oh my god,” I shook my head in disbelief.
    “Where’s Caitlin?” Dax shouted.
    Izzy slammed the brakes on. I jumped out followed by Baja and Specs.
    “Caitlin! Caitlin.” One by one we shouted at the top of our voices into the darkness.
    “I’m here.” We spun around. I breathed a sigh of relief. She had dived into the back of the truck. And there was me thinking she had lost all sense of reality. She was tuned into what was going on probably more than we were. I helped her out and we hopped back into the truck. The reflection of fire in our side mirrors flickered as we peeled out of the town that would no doubt haunt us for a long time.

GRAFFITI CITY
    I t had been two days since we had lost Millie. Caitlin had been silent the whole time until she spoke those words. She was in an almost comatose state. Staring out of the window, I followed her gaze, wondering what she was seeing. Beyond the glass was nothing except a desolate horizon of fire and smoke.
    It was just after dawn when we arrived in the city. We passed signs for the airport. It had taken us the better part of eight days from Castle Rock to Salt Lake City. A hellish drive that I wouldn’t care to repeat. We had abandoned the truck three miles from the city limits because there was no way of getting in. It almost appeared as if someone had purposely blocked off the highway. Three semi-trailers from the back of trucks were positioned sideways, smaller cars were jammed beneath. We were low on ammo and supplies. All of us were hopeful that we would find what we needed in the city.
    It was strange to see the concrete jungle so quiet. Dax and I had only ever once visited Salt Lake City when I was around the age of eight. It was a stark contrast to the way I remembered it. Steel and concrete towered over us, bordered by the Great Salt Lake and the snow-capped peaks of the Wasatch Mountain Range. Built back in 1847 by the Mormons, it had grown into a diverse city. Boasting of some of the best ski resorts in the United States.
    We had no idea what we were walking into, only that we needed to locate where the radio message was being broadcast. I guess we expected to find military on scene, as there were two military bases in Utah. Hill Air Force Base, thirty miles away, and Fort Douglas which was three miles from the city. But we saw no military personnel.
    “Seems a little too quiet,” Specs said as we trudged our way in. Ralphie hadn’t spoken a word since his sister’s death. There was no way to cherry-coat it. By the time this would be over we were all certain we would lose more.
    “Just keep your wits about you,” I said.
    Sheets of paper blew across the streets like tumbleweed. Signs of the military making one last stand could be seen as we passed a burnt-out helicopter among an ocean of Humvees, tanks, barricades, and machine guns emptied of bullets. Everywhere we turned windows had been blown out or cracked. The walls were plastered in graffiti. Red, blue, green, and purple. It was if someone had gone crazy with a spray can.
    I stared up at the dark windows. A sense that someone was watching was prevalent. It wasn’t the death and destruction that was all around that bothered me, as much as it was the bodies hanging from lampposts like piñatas. Most of them were military; others were dressed in business attire. Every street had them. We must have counted at least forty. In other areas there were heads that had been decapitated and shoved down on top of parking meters like popsicles. Someone was definitely sending out a clear message. But who