The Fox Hills Municipal Airport was only a couple miles northeast of town, not far from the river. I parked next to the only row of hangars, where seven old tin buildings of various faded colors stood side by side. I geared up with every weapon I owned and grabbed the crowbar.
A decrepit, lone zed meandered down by the last hangar. I rapped gently on the first hangar. Nothing. I checked the door. Locked. I pried it open and looked inside. An old Cessna 172. It would work but the nose wheel would make it more difficult to land in a field. I checked the next three hangars. One was empty, one held a Beech Bonanza, and I stopped at the fourth. Perfect. Inside awaited a yellow taildragger. On its tail, the Piper Cub logo matched the tattoo on my forearm.
The old hangar door pushed opened easily without power, and I pulled out the small plane. I returned to the truck and grabbed the duffel bag, admiring the way the airplane shone in the sunlight as I headed back toward it. Its owner had taken good care of the classic.
The badly decomposed zed had finally made it within twenty feet of the Cub. I met it halfway, and finished it off with my crowbar. I opened the duffel, kneeled, pulled out my knife, but paused before I cut the zed open. After a moment, I stood, sheathed my knife, and lifted my chin. “No,” I said simply.
I checked the Cub over, made sure the gas tanks were full, and loaded everything up. It took only two hand props to start, and I climbed inside, leaving the door and window open. I skipped the warm-up because engine noise would quickly draw attention, and a plane this small would never survive a collision with a zed. The wheels broke free from the runway at under fifty MPH before the first zeds emerged from the tree line.
The wind made the flight bumpy. They’d hear me coming, but I didn’t care. If Doyle hadn’t fled his camp already, he would never abandon his camp.
The silos of Doyle’s camp came into view eight minutes later. I descended as I approached. I flew right over the camp, looking down to see shaved heads looking up at me. They looked filthy and half-starved. Then I saw the only man without a shaved head. He waved his arms at his Dogs, and someone fired. Then a symphony of gunfire sounded around me.
Where the hell had they gotten their hands on all that firepower? Camp Fox had cut them off, yet these guys were shooting like they had an unlimited supply of ammo. Nevertheless, I couldn’t turn back now. I started my one-eighty.
Get ’em where I want ’em.
I grabbed the duffel from the seat in front of me. I set the bag on my lap and opened it. As I neared the camp with nearly all of its occupants outside firing at me, I searched out Doyle. When I found him, I pulled the pin on the first grenade and dropped it. But the wind and velocity grabbed at the grenade, and it blew at least fifty feet away.
“Dammit,” I muttered and quickly pulled the pins on two more, dropping them.
Dogs were running in different directions while continuing to send fully automatic gunfire my way. I tightly circled overhead, dropping grenades onto the camp.
Sudden agony pierced my calf, sending searing pain every time I touched the rudder pedal, but I remained focused on my mission.
The propane tanks in the camp exploded, and the blast rocked the small Cub.
I righted the plane and continued to drop grenades until the bag was empty. Then I broke away and cut the engine to land silently in a hay field just on the other side of a band of trees, hiding me from the camp. I went to climb out of the plane and winced, grabbing my left calf. My hand came away bloody.
I’d been shot.
If they were using tainted bullets, the virus was now flowing in my veins.
Not much time now. I had to hurry.
I grimaced and tied a bandana around the wound and climbed out. I reached in for my rifle and started to limp my way into the trees and toward the camp.
I figured the Dogs would’ve assumed this was a hit-and-run attack. Since no trucks broke down their gates, they were now safe.
That’s where they’d be wrong.
Chapter XXXIV