Our truck leaned hard to the left as Maria hit the curved exit onto I-70 West as fast as she dared. As she left the approach lane, she cranked the speed up past one hundred MPH and held it there. No one cautioned her as she chased after the link to her husband's wellbeing and ultimately to his life. Several times she had to slow to sixty to dodge cars and other debris abandoned on the roadway. Finally, after the agreed-to ten minutes, Maria made a squalling turn, crossed the median and headed back to Columbia at high speed to get us back on 63 South. The fact she'd been a consistent winner in women's stock car racing several years in the past was the reason I chose her to drive.
Shane's truck wasn't in sight as we sped through town ignoring a few groups of zombies that shuffled out to eat us. We didn't see Junior's motorcycle along the way and figured he'd blasted past the dotardly monsters before they could react to him.
Before reaching the outskirts of town, we encountered eleven of the rotted undead spread across the road blocking our way. They stumbled toward us moaning and shrieking and flexing their fingers in hopes of getting a few bites at our flesh. Several rotting corpses lay scattered behind them. I wondered how long they'd lain there and if Junior had shot them or Scumbag had been delayed by them. Our truck stopped and a sniper stood up through the truck's moon roof panel and made quick work of exploding their diseased brains until they collapsed in the street with the other garbage of their kind. We continued south gaining speed again through the smelly carnage. In hindsight, I often had to stop and remind myself those had once been humans.
Maria again drove like hell, and I occasionally called for Junior on the radio. Twenty-five miles south of Columbia I received a reply, but it wasn't from Junior.
"Ed here. I've got Junior in sight. I heard your exchange about splitting up and raced ahead to cover him."
Ed's crew left the compound thirty minutes after our main group with the intention of trapping anyone following us when he caught up to us.
Ed continued, "We're clear. No one followed you or we would have seen them. We got close to you once, heard you on the radio then backed off. We stayed in radio range listening to your chatter but kept silent."
I'd watched throughout the drive as Maria monitored the rear-view-mirror closely. We were again on track. A few minutes later we entered Jefferson City.
Maria said, "A lone pickup is gaining on us. It's black like Shane's truck."
Martin called then to let us know they were friendlies. Shane passed us and Ed's truck and took the lead so Martin Sr. could monitor the tracking signals. We took Highway 50/63 East out of town, and then we turned south on 63 again.
My crew appeared sluggish from the tight and extended confinement in the truck cab. God knows I was. After eight hours of sitting my butt was tired. No one had nervously cracked jokes or spoke for the past hour. I knew they were all worried. I thought of our missing crew members and hoped they hadn't been harmed. No one had vocalized their fears in detail, but I knew them well enough to know their thoughts traveled the same tracks as mine. That was the reason every last person in our building had volunteered for this mission.
An hour later we turned west onto US 44. A few minutes later, the radio squawked and Junior said, "Dad, south onto Highway T."
Martin replied, "Gotcha."
We turned onto the twisting, hilly, two-lane blacktop road and drove for forty minutes.
Junior spoke excitedly, "Ha, Dad, I've got a big buck off to my left. He's so big he's kicking up dust when he prances."
Several seconds later, Martin Sr. replied, "Gotcha, stay in your blind and don't shoot until it's closer."
I saw by confused looks that four of us were lost after listening to the exchange. I asked, "What the hell was that about?"
John Alton's eyes twinkled and he laughed before he spoke, "Junior's pretty damn clever. He just told us the deer he's after, our truck, turned left onto a gravel or dirt road and kicked up dust. Then Martin replied for him to stay in his blind. I assume that meant to take cover. The rest was probably just playing along."
I was serious when I told the people in my crew, "Get ready, we're close."
Our three trucks pulled to the side of the road and all fifteen of us stepped out to stretch during an impromptu meeting. Several were positive the kidnappers would have a sentry stationed close to the turnoff and a means of warning the main group of an imminent attack. Everyone nodded. Martin said the receiver showed the first transmitter had turned left about three-fourths of a mile ahead. Junior looked to be about three-eighths of a mile from us on the right side of the road.
I didn't want our people walking into a trap; we didn't know what size group we were up against; they could be five or fifty strong. After a short discussion, we speculated the group would likely be small because no one
