Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 14): Home

by Chesser, Shawn

  Straining to reach a rope tied to one of the red plastic sleds, Raven said, “Sergeant Whipper?”

  “Yeah, that dick.”

  “My dad beat his butt good. That’s why he’s so nice to me and Duncan.”

  “That explains it,” said Daymon as a six-inch hula girl on the floor caught his eye. Bending and snatching up the dash ornament, he went on, saying, “Maybe we should stop by Schriever on the way back so I can beat his ass. Perhaps an attitude adjustment would convince him to be a little nicer to me in the future.”

  Raven said, “Only if you want to spend the night in jail.”

  Shivering at the prospect, Daymon stuffed the hula girl in a pocket.

  Raven let her gaze roam the barren shelves. The place had been stripped of most everything useful. No stools or ladders. No brooms or rakes to snag the dangling rope with. Though she’d hit a growth spurt since fall, there was no way she was getting the sleds down without resorting to doing the one thing she had grown to hate the most since losing her dad: ask for help.

  Through gritted teeth, she said, “A little assistance here?”

  “How many do you want?”

  “Four.”

  “How about we take all six? You can use the extras for barter.” Without waiting for an answer, Daymon reached over Raven’s head and easily plucked the toboggans from the shelf.

  Dust motes swirled and danced in the air as he placed the liberated snow toys by the door.

  “Thanks,” said Raven. “How tall are you, anyway?”

  “Counting my boots and dreads … six-two … ish. Maybe six-three.”

  “I’ve got a ways to go,” she conceded glumly.

  “You’re going to be taller than Brook,” said Daymon matter-of-factly. “You’re already nearly as tall as she was—”

  “When my dad killed her. Thought I would never hear myself say those words.”

  Daymon had no response to that. There really was none he could think of. In fact he was pissed at himself for bringing Raven’s late mother up in the first place. So he tried a little distraction: “Help me find the automotive aisle.” Patting his pockets, he asked, “You have a flashlight handy?”

  Dumb question, thought Raven as she toggled on the tactical light riding the picatinny rail underneath her carbine’s barrel.

  White cone of light sweeping back and forth, Raven led them down each aisle. Back and forth they went, stepping over toppled paint cans and tubes of caulking and rolls of masking tape.

  The automotive aisle was near the rear of the store. Save for a tube of instant radiator weld, a vanilla-scented air freshener tree, and a rock chip repair kit that had been unwanted or got overlooked, the shelves held only a thin layer of dust and a minefield of rat turds.

  Daymon pocketed the random items, then reached to the top shelf and pulled down what looked to be a pillow shrink-wrapped in plastic.

  Raven said, “What’s that?”

  “It’s an imitation-wool seat cover.”

  “For Heidi?”

  Shaking his head, he said, “It’s for Duncan.”

  “Looks like you’re going to have to enlist Duncan to sweet talk Whipper out of whatever you came here for.”

  Daymon thought, Master of the obvious. Out loud he said, “I guess asking Old Man for help is better than busted knuckles and a night in jail.”

  Barely, thought Raven. Painting the back wall with the light from her rifle, she raised a hand and froze. After holding that pose for a couple of beats and again hearing the faint shuffling noise that had precipitated the pause—shoe soles drawing across wood planking was her best guess—she looked over her shoulder at Daymon and pointed to her ear. I hear something.

  Daymon had heard it too. Nodding, he set the seat cover on the floor, gripped the neon green handle of the machete he’d named Kindness, and drew the razor-sharp blade from the scabbard on his hip.

  Heel and toeing it to keep the floorboards underfoot from creaking, Raven crept down the center of the store, now and again pausing to peer left and right down gloomy aisles.

  After searching what she guessed was two-thirds of the store, Raven’s light washed over the moldering corpse of someone she guessed had once been associated with the store.

  Perhaps a worker?

  Maybe the owner, Abe?

  Sitting on the floor, back to a post and legs splayed out, the corpse had been here for a long time. Hair and bone and dried brains clung to the post above the dead man’s canted head. Of course, a tiny hole ringed by a raised nub of cartilage was all that remained of the corpse’s right ear.

  “Keep moving,” Daymon whispered. “We couldn’t have collected it anyway.”

  Nodding, Raven stepped over the dead man’s legs and pushed deeper into the store.

  Three aisles removed from the morbid scene depicting someone’s last willful act, they found themselves face to face with the source of the shuffling noises.

  Chapter 2

  Raven had spotted the pair of fresh turns as she rounded an endcap display piled high with stacked paint cans. She immediately went to one knee, made a fist and held it up for Daymon to see.

  Halt.

  She watched for a moment as the dead things trundled single file down the lawn care aisle toward her.

  It was clear by their actions—arms outstretched, gnarled fingers kneading the air—that the monsters knew they were in the presence of fresh meat.

  Thankfully, due to the air inside Abe’s being somewhere in the high thirties, every movement the corpses made was painfully slow. And though their jaws were making the usual chewing motions, not a sound was issuing from their open maws.

  “They’re real slow and not making any noise,” Raven noted quietly. “Means they’re real close to locking up.”

  “Good for us,” Daymon said. “Bad for them.”

  As Raven studied the one nearest to her, it completed a plodding step and its dead eyes slowly ranged downward and locked with hers.

  The man had been in his mid-forties before first death. He was clean-shaven and had no visible tattoos. The two smallest fingers on one hand were just nubs of bone protruding from a crude bandage. Blood from the injury had soaked the man’s jacket sleeve then dried, leaving it almost black and, from the looks of it, stiff as a board. On the corpse’s feet were like-new lug-soled Vasque hiking boots.

  Though she would have been scared if put in this position before that awful day her dad had been captured and tortured by the Chinese, now, she didn’t feel a thing. She was numb to them. Over the days and weeks since, she’d become callous to the former humans she used to grieve for.

  Craning, Raven saw that the second shuffler was dressed the same as the first. It looked to have been Wilson’s age before becoming infected, dying, and coming back hungering for the flesh of the living.

  Was he the older one’s adult son?

  That’s all the thought Raven gave the pair. Though the cold had vastly reduced their already compromised speed and dexterity, they were still ambulatory and carrying the Omega virus.

  As Raven positioned herself to take on the older of the two corpses, she saw that both still had their right ears.

  Easy money.

  “Dibs on the dad,” said Daymon.

  Too late. Already advancing on the first wavering corpse, Raven slipped her rifle around to her back, removed the matte-black Gerber MK II combat dagger from its sheath on her hip, and ducked under the thing’s reaching arms. Grabbing a handful of North Face parka, she pulled the living corpse’s upper torso downward toward her knife hand and expertly guided the serrated blade into its right eye.

  A quick thrust and twist of her wrist was all it took to pierce cranial bone and scramble the brain cradled within.

  Daymon was voicing his displeasure at being one-upped when Raven stepped aside and guided the stilled corpse to the floor between them.

  There was a solid thud. The dead weight hitting the wooden floorboards sent a vibration shooting through Raven’s boots
.

  “The ear is all yours,” she said, going into a combat crouch and advancing on the younger specimen, whose eyes were already devouring her. The hunger conveyed by those lifeless black orbs brought on a hard shiver as Raven dispatched it in the same manner as she had the other.

  Once the second kill had crashed to the floor and settled in a semi-fetal position, she stepped back to allow Daymon room to work on the first.

  A short chopping motion with Kindness liberated the waxen-looking lump of flesh and cartilage from the corpse’s head.

  Even after having seen Daymon do this hundreds of times, the ubiquitous thunk-squish noise always caused Raven’s stomach to lurch.

  Wrinkling her nose, she said, “I’ll do this one.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.” Without pause, she kneeled next to the twenty-something and grabbed a fistful of curly hair. Though she was wearing leather gloves, they were fingerless, which caused her to feel the gritty accumulation of twigs and bugs in the corpse’s greasy, matted locks.

  Technique honed from performing the task hundreds of times over the last few weeks, she grasped the fleshy lobe with her off hand. Then, cutting away from herself, she sawed upward until the prize was hers.

  “Just like it’s done in the handbook,” said Daymon. He took a roll of plastic sacks from a pocket and handed her one. Originally a staple used by dog owners to police up their pooch’s sidewalk bombs, the colorful scented items were perfect for this job and could hold dozens of ears of all sizes and shapes.

  Looking up at Daymon, Raven asked, “Should we check their pockets? See where they came from?”

  He nodded. “Just check your emotions at the door.”

  I did that weeks ago. Pausing, she asked, “Do you think they died somewhere out there and turned and then found their way in here after hearing me bang on the door? Or did they get wounded out there and then come in here looking for shelter?”

  “These two were doing the same thing we are. Only I’m willing to bet they got greedy and were breaking the law and culling after dark. Chances are they were already in here when you pounded on the door. They were way too mobile to have just recently come in from outside.” Lips moving, he looked to the ceiling. “We’ve been inside less than ten minutes. No way.” He shook his head. “No way they came in after us.”

  Raven emptied the corpse’s pockets and spread the items out on the floor. There were energy bars, a pair of empty small-caliber handguns, two wallets, and two fixed-blade knives of questionable quality. And sure enough, each were carrying Ziploc sandwich bags. The younger man’s was nearly opaque with some kind of bodily fluid and contained more than twenty severed ears. While the older man had been less prolific, his soiled baggie still contained a respectable baker’s dozen.

  Rifling through the older man’s wallet told Raven he was originally from Connecticut and had been a member of the teacher’s union there. For some silly reason, he was carrying around a thick stack of crisp hundred-dollar bills.

  Daymon asked, “Where they from?”

  She emptied the younger man’s wallet. After plucking the license and a folded square of familiar-looking yellow paper off the floor, she said, “They’re both from the same address in New Haven, Connecticut.” Screwing up her face, she added, “He’s forty-six and this one is twenty-two. Different last names, though. Means they’re not related.”

  Pointing out the matching silver rings they each wore on their left hand, he said, “That’s because they were a married couple.”

  “Ewwww,” she exclaimed. “North Face is twice as old as the other guy.”

  “No different than the mid-life crisis Corvette dudes and forty-something cougars who used to prowl Jackson Hole in search of young meat. Look at Hollywood before the world went to hell. Common practice was to trade in the old models for the new as soon as the previous started to show some wear and tear. And I’m not talking Lambos and Ferraris.”

  Raven had been holding the folded paper in one hand and listening intently. As Daymon’s story progressed to car talk, her head slowly took on a slight tilt. Once he paused to take a breath, she said, “Cougars?”

  “Recent divorcees or widows with newly done faces. Plastic surgery Botox queens looking for boy toys.”

  “How do you know North Face was a cougar?”

  Daymon shook his head. Smiling, he said, “Dudes can’t be cougars.”

  “Why not?”

  “Above my pay grade.” Indicating the paper in her hand, he said, “Is that what I think it is?”

  She unfolded it and gave it a cursory glance.

  Daymon said, “Let me have a look.”

  She handed it over.

  After examining the creased page, he shook his head and whistled. “These fools were way out of their lane. Wonder how they got their hands on an all-temperature, all-zone cull license.”

  She said, “I thought you have to be current or former military to have one.”

  “Or prove you have proper training,” he added. “Face value … these two don’t fit the bill.”

  “Think they got this on the black market?”

  Duncan said, “Dollars to donuts, that’s exactly where these greenhorns got it.” Somehow, he had made his way through the door, over the fallen Indian chief, walked to the back of the store, and rounded the last aisle’s endcap—all without making a sound.

  Daymon started. “You sneaky bastard,” he shot. “How’d you pull off the ninja approach?”

  Chuckling, Duncan said, “What I lack in dexterity and flexibility, I make up for with cunning and patience.” He nodded at the paper in Daymon’s hand. “That’s a Golden Ticket, isn’t it?”

  Daymon closed his eyes and tilted his head back.

  Noting the younger man’s free hand was at rest on the butt of his Sig Sauer pistol, and that Raven had instinctively drawn her pistol, Duncan raised his hands and apologized for sneaking up on them.

  Daymon fixed the older man with a hard stare. “Damn near scared the kinks out of my dreads.”

  “Not my intention,” Duncan drawled. “I thought for sure my creaky old knees had given me away well before I arrived on scene.”

  “Well they didn’t,” Raven said, holstering the Glock. Then, parroting something she had once heard her dad say to Wilson, she went on, “That’s a good way to get yourself two to the head.”

  Cackling, Duncan said, “Out of the mouths of babes.”

  Daymon rose and kick-stretched his legs. “We keeping their ears?”

  Making a face, Raven plucked her ear from the bag and placed it on the younger man’s corpse. Holding up the soiled baggies bulging with ears, she said, “These are fair game. But I feel that trading Theodore and Liam’s ears for credit is inviting bad luck and trouble.” She paused. “Knock yourself out if you want to keep yours.”

  Placing a hand on Daymon’s shoulder, Duncan said, “She’s right, you know. Capitalizing off of their bad luck is bad juju.”

  Fishing the ear from his baggie and tossing it on the floor between the corpses, Daymon said, “I’m not a ghoul. Someone in Springs might be missing these two.”

  Nodding, Raven said, “You did the right thing, Daymon.”

  Arms crossed, Daymon said nothing.

  Patting the seat cover he’d scooped off the floor on the way down the center aisle, Duncan said, “Thanks for this, D.” Tucking it under one arm, he added, “Now let’s get down the road and see if it’s worth its weight in right ears.”

  Raven wanted to know what Old Man meant by the cryptic statement but decided to let it play out.

  Chapter 3

  Chief Warrant Officer 4 Ari Silver, crack aviator and longtime member of the storied 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, worked the stick and pedals with expert precision as the Ghost Hawk helicopter he was piloting rocketed west at a hundred knots, its smooth underbelly nearly skimming the glassy surface of Utah’s Great Salt Lake. Save for the lake’s aquamarine water and laser-straight r
un of Interstate 80 stretching away north by west, there was nothing to see but miles and miles of flat, white salt plains.

  Now and again Ari would look out the starboard window at the lake’s surface and spot the matte-black stealth helo’s reflection keeping pace.

  Minutes after leaving the Great Salt Lake behind and bumping up over a line of low, ochre-colored hills, Ari had the Gen 3 helo tracking a due west heading. Keeping perfect pace just off the Ghost Hawk’s nose, the helo’s angular shadow stretched and compressed as it flitted over the occasional depression in the mostly flat landscape.

  “Thank you for flying Night Stalker Airways,” quipped the wannabe comedian, who was in his mid-thirties and acted like a teenager most of the time. “Next stop, Bendover Nevada.”

  In this case the veteran of many combat tours in Godforsaken hotspots all over the world wasn’t kidding. Precisely ten seconds after making the announcement over the shipwide comms, Ari hauled back hard on the stick, causing the bland landscape filling the cockpit glass to instantly give way to cobalt blue sky.

  Not one complaint came from the special ops “customers” riding in back. To the contrary, one of the shooters showed his satisfaction by belting out “Yee haw!” and fist bumping the team members near him.

  Seated opposite Ari, gloved hands flitting over the large touchscreen making up the majority of the Ghost Hawk’s cutting-edge glass cockpit, thirty-six-year-old Chief Warrant Officer 3 Haynes took the abrupt maneuver in stride.

  No matter the airframe, Ari liked to hotrod his bird; therefore nothing much fazed the well-muscled African American aviator.

  “Two minutes,” said Ari.

  In response, Haynes said, “FLIR coming online.”

  “Standard optical,” Ari replied. “Fifty percent zoom.”

  “Copy that,” Haynes said. “Standard optical. Fifty percent zoom.”

  With the helicopter beginning to bleed airspeed and go nose down, all while banking to starboard, Haynes gazed out Ari’s window and got a real good look at Wendover Airport directly below them.