Chapter 3 Sierra
three
Sierra
The storm has calmed to a steady snowfall as we position the last speaker, though the wind still cuts through my jacket like ice.
"That's four," I pant, securing the device to a pine tree. My fingers are numb despite the gloves Kole gave me. "Think it'll be enough?"
"Has to be." Kole scans the valley below through binoculars. "Movement to the north. Maybe three miles out."
Three miles. At zombie shambling speed in snow, we have maybe two hours.
"We should test the system," I suggest.
"And risk drawing them directly to us?"
"Better to know now if it doesn't work than when they're on our doorstep."
He considers this, then nods. "Quick burst. Ten seconds max."
We make our way back to the cabin, where I've rigged the control system from Kole's damaged radio equipment and spare parts. It's held together by determination and electrical tape, but it should work.
Should.
"Ready?" I ask, hand on the activation switch.
"Do it."
I flip the switch. For a heartbeat, nothing happens. Then, faintly through the storm, we hear it—music playing from all four speakers, the sound echoing off the valley walls.
"It works," I breathe.
"Turn it off."
I kill the signal after eight seconds. We both stand frozen, listening, waiting to see if we've just signed our death warrants.
"There," Kole points. Through the window, barely visible through the snow, dark shapes are moving in the valley. But they're angling toward the speakers, not the cabin.
"It's working," I say. "They're following the sound."
"That's maybe twenty. Where are the rest?"
As if in answer, a moan carries on the wind. Then another. And another. The hair on the back of my neck stands up as I realize the sound is coming from all around us.
"They split up," Kole says grimly. "The storm scattered them."
"So instead of one herd of two hundred—"
"We've got multiple smaller groups coming from different directions."
The tactical situation just went from bad to catastrophic. Our speaker system can maybe divert one group, but multiple groups from different angles?
"We need a new plan," I say.
"We need to fort up. Now."
We spend the next hour in focused preparation. Kole has pre-cut boards that we nail over the remaining exposed windows. We fill containers with water in case we're trapped for days. Ammunition gets distributed to strategic positions throughout the cabin.
"You've done this before," I observe, noting how efficiently everything is organized.
"Three times. Smaller groups, but the principle's the same."
"What happened?"
"I survived."
"Alone?"
"Always alone." He pauses in his work. "Until now."
There's weight in those words that makes my chest tight. This man has survived three years of hell by himself, and now he's trusting me to watch his back.
"I won't let you down," I tell him.
"I know."
The simple confidence in his voice means more than it should.
The first zombies appear at the tree line just after noon. Five of them, struggling through the snow but persistent. Kole takes them out with his rifle from the window, clean headshots that speak to years of practice.
"Group from the east," I report from my position. "Maybe twelve."
"Can you handle it?"
"On it."
My rifle kicks against my shoulder, and the lead zombie drops. Then the second. By the time I've taken down the fourth, Kole's at my side, adding his fire to mine.
"Good shooting," he says when the last one falls.
"I had good backup."
"I didn't do anything."
"Your presence. It steadied me."
He looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. Before either of us can say more, moaning from the north draws our attention.
"Here comes the main group," Kole says.
They come in waves. Ten here, fifteen there, drawn by the sound of gunfire but confused by the echoing mountains. We use the speakers strategically, triggering them to draw groups away when they get too close. But there are so many, and our ammunition won't last forever.
"Magazine," I call out, ejecting my empty clip.
Kole tosses me a fresh one without looking, trusting I'll catch it. I do, slamming it home and dropping two more zombies that had gotten within thirty feet of the cabin.
"They're learning," I observe. "Starting to ignore the speakers."
"Zombies don't learn."
"Then they're adapting. Same result."
A crash from the back of the cabin makes us both spin. Three zombies have found the rear door, and they're pounding on it with disturbing coordination.
"I've got it," Kole says, but I'm already moving.
"Together," I correct, and we approach the door from opposite angles.
The door splinters on the next hit. A rotting arm reaches through, grasping blindly. I take the arm off at the elbow with my machete while Kole puts a knife through the skull of its owner. The other two try to push through together, getting wedged in the doorframe.
"Duck!" Kole shouts.
I drop, and his axe whistles over my head, burying itself in zombie skull. The third one reaches for me, and without thinking, I grab Kole's dropped knife and drive it upward through its jaw.
We stand there breathing hard, covered in gore, surrounded by bodies.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Fine. You?"
"Fine."
We're both lying. My shoulder aches from the rifle recoil, my hands are bleeding inside the gloves, and I'm pretty sure that's not all zombie blood on Kole's shirt. But we're alive, and that's what matters.
"How many more?" I ask.
He peers out the window. "Maybe forty."
Forty. We've already taken down at least sixty, and there are forty more.
"We're running low on ammunition," I point out.
"I know."
"We need to get creative."
"Define creative."
I look around the cabin, taking inventory with new eyes. "You have fuel?"
"Some diesel for the generator."
"Bottles?"
"A few."
"Molotovs?"
He stares at me. "You want to throw fire at zombies. In a snowstorm. While defending a wooden cabin."
"You have a better idea?"
"Actually, no."
We work quickly, filling bottles with diesel, stuffing cloth wicks. It's dangerous and probably stupid, but we're out of good options.
"On three?" I suggest, lighter in hand.
"Wait." Kole reaches out, his hand covering mine. "If this goes wrong—"
"It won't."
We light the Molotovs and throw them into the largest group of zombies. The effect is immediate and horrifying. Fire spreads among the closely packed bodies, and the moaning becomes something worse. But it works. The burning zombies stumble and fall, taking others down with them.
"The speakers!" I shout, realizing the fire is spreading toward one of our devices.
"Leave it!"
But I'm already running, sliding through the snow toward the endangered equipment. I hear Kole cursing behind me, then his footsteps following. I reach the speaker just as a burning zombie lurches toward me.
Kole's axe takes its head off before it can grab me.
"That was stupid," he growls.
"But effective." I hold up the speaker. "We might need this."
"Not if you're dead."
"I'm not dead."
"You almost were."
"But I'm not."
We're standing very close, both breathing hard, and suddenly the danger and adrenaline transform into something else entirely. He reaches up, brushes ash from my cheek with surprising gentleness.
"Don't do that again," he says softly.
"Which part?"
"The part where you almost die for equipment we can replace."
"Can we replace it though?"
"Sierra."
The way he says my name, not Goldfinch but Sierra, makes my knees weak.
A moan behind us breaks the moment. Three more zombies are approaching, and beyond them, dozens more.
"Inside," Kole orders.
"But—"
"Inside. Now."