Dead Again by George Magnum Page A

War II bunker. It was converted for storage a long time ago. We keep a lot of stuff down there, including food, water and medicine.”
    “That basement is for shit, Nurse Dee.” Sheriff Jones turned to Peterson, “It’s seventy years old and no more than an old, beaten up basement.”
    Trooper Willis had a tone to his voice which annoyed the hell out of Peterson. “When everybody got sick, they went to the hospital. That place will be crawling with these things, Commander. It will be a downright crazy idea.”
    “If we’re going to do this, lets do it right,” Peterson said. “It has safety, and sounds like a good supply of food, water and medicine. My men could use it, too—I’ve get some wounded. It makes the most sense. That’s where were going.”
    “Who made you leader, Commander?” Sheriff Jones said.
    Peterson just stared back, calmly. “You want our help?”
    Jones looked back, clearly defeated.
    “Then from now on you’ll take orders from me. And so will your men.”
     

 
     
    CHAPTER THIRTEEN
     
     
    Peterson’s team, the cops and ten armed civilians all huddled around Peterson as he laid out the plan.
    “We’re going to use that 18 wheeler,” Peterson turned and pointed to a eighteen wheel truck. The cabin was painted with red and yellow flames, and a shiny metal skull was mounted on its hood. “How is it on gas?”
    “It’s my truck sir,” came a voice. It was a civilian, in his mid-forties, wearing a cowboy hat and holding an 8 gauge shotgun--an elephant killer. He stepped forward, “At your service. It’s running on fumes.”
    “How much distance do you think she’s got left?” inquired Peterson.
    “Not much, soldier,” the cowboy said as he scratched his 5 o’clock shadow. “She can give up at any time.”
    “Well,” Peterson said, “all we need is for your truck to make it about 500 feet. Running on fumes will have to do. I will you need you to drive it, and a volunteer to ride shotgun,” Peterson’s voice was confident and direct. “It’s going to be risky.”
      “What’s the idea, Commander?” Trooper Willis demanded.
    Peterson shot Willis a hard glance. He didn’t like being questioned.
    “The truck is going to ram right through the front gate, and, like a wrecking ball, will hammer a passageway right through those things.”
    “Good idea,” the trucker said with some eagerness in his voice.
    “Good, Cowboy,” Peterson liked this guy. He looked up at the rest of the armed civilians. “And who will ride shotgun?”
    Another civilian stepped forward. He looked like a member of a motorcycle gang. He had a thick beard and mustache, long hair, and was wearing sunglasses. He also sported a bandana and a weather-beaten leather biker jacket. Cradled in his arms was a mean looking machine gun.
    “Call me Hatchet,” he said in a cool, unruffled voice. “I’m the man.”
    “Yes you are,” Peterson said with approval.
    Looking down, Peterson used his finger to outline an invisible map on the cement.
    “Cowboy, you’ll need to back up to the other end of the lot, right here. Then I want you to make one loop, gain speed, and then break right through the gate,” Peterson looked at Cowboy and then continued. “Keep driving right over those bastards. You got to bore us a pathway right through those walking bags of flesh, understand?”
    “Understood,” Cowboy said, sounding self-assured.
    Peterson turned to Sheriff Jones, “As soon as the truck is through, my team is going to move outside and blast until we establish a perimeter, at least thirty feet wide, for the civilians to bust through. Your men need to usher the civilians outside the gate, and providing suppressing fire for us. Got it?”
    Sheriff Jones nodded back. He looked nervous.
    “Once we make it through, I want half of the armed men up front leading the way and the other half behind, making sure our rear is covered and that no civilians get left behind. My team will hold the flanks. This way,