Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 14): Home

by Chesser, Shawn

  Just as the low-flying Ghost Hawk bumped up to treetop level and disappeared from sight, two MultiCam-clad soldiers stepped from the first M-ATV and the door to the medical trailer hinged open to reveal a person in a white Level B hazmat suit. Wearing gloves and a black facemask hooked to the self-contained breathing apparatus worn on its back, nothing about the form exiting the med trailer seemed welcoming.

  “This always feels like jail in-processing,” Duncan whispered.

  “Prepare to lift ‘em and cough?” Daymon replied.

  “I heard that,” Raven said, a measure of disgust in her tone. “Remember, guys, they’re just doing their jobs.”

  The soldiers stalked over to the Bronco while the person in the suit closed the trailer door and watched their approach from atop the short stack of stairs. Though the face behind the mask was hard to make out, the gesture the suited form made was not.

  Elbowing open his door, Duncan said, “Well, kids … our wait is over.”

  Chapter 11

  “No sudden movements,” Duncan joked as he formed up outside the Bronco between Raven and Daymon. Looking left and right, he added, “Isn’t this cute. We’re arranged shortest to tallest.

  While one soldier inspected the Bronco’s interior and went through their belongings, the other produced a tactical light and a dinner-plate-sized mirror. The soldier thumbed on the light then extended the telescoping handle attached to the mirror. Using the mirror and light in conjunction, he walked around the rig, inspecting its undercarriage, wheel wells, and all of the dark recesses around the V8 engine.

  Finished with the cab and backseat area, the first soldier slammed the driver’s side door and moved around to the rear of the SUV.

  “Easy on the paint,” Daymon called. “She’s a classic.”

  The soldier said nothing. Just continued to wave a hand-held Geiger counter over the gear in back. Finished, the soldier regarded the woman in the hazmat suit. “It’s clean, ma’am. Rad levels are nominal.”

  The other soldier pocketed his flashlight, then collapsed the handle and tucked the mirror under one arm. Looking to the woman, he assured her that the Bronco wasn’t harboring any biologic residue.

  “I could have told you all of that,” Daymon said. “We ran our counter over the dead before we culled them.”

  A lie. However, running the counter over their severed ears after the fact seemed adequate to him. Shoved the lie over into the little white column.

  Voice a bit muffled, the woman said, “No, you didn’t. You culled and collected. Then you checked the bounty for rads. That’d probably be my approach.”

  The first soldier looked a question at the woman.

  Nodding, the woman said, “Start with the girl.”

  Raven was swept for radiation first. Coming up clean, she was led into the trailer by the woman.

  Looking his friend in the eye, Duncan said, “Here comes the ‘ol”—he pantomimed squeezing his nipples, then pretended to fondle the family jewels—“honk, honk, doodle, doodle. Are you ready for it?”

  “Is there a serious bone in your body?”

  With a twinkle in his eye, Duncan said, “I think we’re about to find out,” and bust out in his trademark cackle.

  The soldier with the Geiger counter started with Duncan, then moved on to Daymon. Once both men were found to be carrying only nominal levels of radiation, two suited men emerged from the trailer and ushered them inside.

  ***

  After having each received a thorough once-over by a medical professional of their own gender, Duncan and Raven emerged from the trailer.

  Duncan was holding his seat forward so Raven could clamber into the Bronco when the trailer door opened and Daymon leaped from the top stair. Though it initially looked as if he had made a successful jailbreak and was making his run to freedom, once his boots hit the churned ground in front of the bottom stair he walked slowly to the Bronco, a definite pep in his step.

  Addressing the younger man as he took his place behind the steering wheel, Duncan said, “Why so happy?” He stabbed his pointer finger skyward. “The pretty lady give you a free oil check in there?”

  As the outer gate began to slide away in front of the Bronco, a purple Mountain Metro city bus was slowly revealed. The late model Gillig was parked parallel to the gate with an older man already in the driver’s seat and cranking the engine over. A tick later there was puff of gray exhaust and the diesel growled to life.

  Because the bus was weighted down with rubble taken from the Red Zone, it sat real low to the ground and took a lot of gunning the engine from the driver to get moving.

  Turning the key in the ignition, Daymon said, “I think the lady doctor is interested in me.”

  While they waited for the bus to catch up with the outer gate, Duncan looked a question at Daymon.

  Out of her seatbelt, arms draped over the seatbacks, Raven did the same.

  Gaze shifting between the two, Daymon threw his arms in the air. “Heidi’s murder fucked me in the head big time. In fact, it brought back old memories of the cruelty she said she endured as Robert Christian’s concubine. Still”—he grinned feebly—“a guy has to get back in the saddle. Go on living his life.”

  Still staring at Daymon, his head slowly panning back and forth, Duncan sighed loudly.

  Gaze locked on the trailer door, Daymon bit his lip and returned both hands to the wheel.

  Once there was room for the Bronco to slip by the slow-rolling bus, a soldier manning the gate on the inside stepped into the narrow gap and motioned them forward.

  As Daymon got the Bronco moving in first gear, Duncan twisted in his seat to face him. Wearing a wan smile, he said, “I think that performance is worthy of an Oscar. About the doc, I think you’re full of it.”

  Before Daymon could mount a defense, Raven said, “What’s the doc’s name?”

  Daymon flicked his eyes to the side mirror and watched the gate close behind them. He ignored the accusatory line of questioning long enough to watch the bus roll back into position.

  Working the stick to find the next gear, Daymon looked to Duncan. “I’m full of shit? That’s rich coming from a guy for whom the truth is Kryptonite. You’re so full of bullshit your eyes are brown.” He regarded Raven in the rearview, voice softening he went on, “Her name is Sonja. Like the comic book character: Red Sonja. She told me she was a kid doctor and stuck working at a hospital in Salt Lake when it fell.”

  “Pediatrician,” Raven said. “How old is she?”

  “My age.”

  Sounding skeptical, Duncan said, “So, early thirties? I was thinking mid-twenties. Then again, her face was mostly concealed by the mask.”

  Daymon nodded. “I’m just guessing, though. You think I’m stupid enough to actually ask a woman her age?”

  “One time I was so drunk,” Duncan mused, “that I asked a woman her age, weight, shoe size and if she would like to drink Pina coladas and make love to me in the dunes on a cape.”

  Daymon said, “Yeah, I heard that song before.” He regarded Raven in the mirror. “See, I told you. He’s making up stories based on song lyrics. You have any experiences Prince may have memorialized in song?”

  Raven said, “Ewwww.” Not liking where the conversation was going, she eyed Acacia Park sliding by on the left.

  Taking up nearly an entire city block, every tree on it taller than twenty feet touched in some way by the conflagration, the park was now being used as an assembly point for the gate’s quick reaction force. Parked side by side, their grilles facing Platte, was a number of military vehicles: M-ATVs, MRAPS, eight-wheeled Strykers, and Humvees in many different configurations. An assemblage of mobile homes and RVs took up the rest of the flat ground behind the makeshift motor pool.

  Though not her first time entering the city via the East Gate, the sight of darkened signs over fast food restaurants still got her stomach to rumbling. As they passed a Carl’s Jr, she was taken back to her old life. To the Mike’s Drive-In back i
n Portland, Oregon. A special place where memories of eating burgers and fries and slurping milkshakes with her mom and dad had been forged. She recalled how her dad would always comment on the framed prints on the walls, trying to guess the makes and models of the classic cars and hotrods featured in the American-Graffiti-inspired artwork.

  Still tuning out the spirited banter taking place between the adults in the front seat, she locked her gaze on the distant thirteen-story building she now called home.

  Stopping dead center on the snowy two-lane where westbound Platte crossed Cascade Avenue, Daymon shushed Duncan and craned around in his seat.

  “Where do you want to go?” he asked Raven. “The Antlers or Penrose?”

  Voice devoid of all emotion, she said, “Home.”

  A little red-faced after going at it with Daymon, Duncan said, “Sure you don’t want to go to Penrose? I’m sure Glenda would love some company.”

  Looking north down Cascade, Raven said, “After all the culling today, a little peace and quiet would do me good.”

  As Daymon made the turn to the south, Duncan said, “Surely ain’t going to find any of that at home. Either Wilson and Sasha will be at each other’s throats, or Peter and Sasha will have their tongues down each other’s throats.”

  Raven smiled vacantly. “Please drop me off at the park.”

  Duncan said, “It’s pretty cold outside, Raven.”

  “In case you need a reminder, Duncan, you aren’t my parent and you aren’t my legal guardian.”

  That shut Duncan up.

  Handing Daymon a scuffed and faded card bearing the Visa logo, she said, “Have them load my cut from the cull on this.”

  “You got it,” said Daymon, pocketing the card. “See who’s treating you like the ass kicker you are. Me. That’s who.” He slid Heidi to the curb on Pikes Peak Avenue and set the brake. Elbowing open his door, he stepped to the road and tilted his seat forward.

  As Raven wormed her way out of the backseat, her gaze was drawn to her favorite bench in the park. It was constructed of some kind of dark wood polished smooth from accommodating lots of butts. Facing north by west, it afforded her an unobstructed view of the Garden of the Gods to the west and the Rocky Mountains rising up northwest of the walled-in city.

  Endearing her to the particular bench more than any view could was that it sat underneath a deciduous ash tree, one of her mom’s favorites.

  Daymon stooped over and hugged Raven. Staying in big brother mode, he said, “Holler if you need anything.”

  Raven slung her carbine and turned toward the park.

  “Mind your safety on that thing,” Duncan called.

  Ignoring Duncan’s nagging, Raven made tracks through the snow toward her bench. The bench with the small bronze plaque announcing it as a donation to the city made in the loving memory of Charles and Beatrice Goodwin.

  The Bronco rocked on its springs when Daymon climbed behind the wheel. Slamming the door, he said, “Apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”

  “Nail on the head,” Duncan said. “But I’m afraid that apple is starting to get a little big for her britches.”

  Daymon was nodding in agreement as he wrenched the wheel over and started the Bronco in a wide U-turn that would see them heading back the way they’d come.

  Getting the rig back to tracking north on Cascade, he said, “That’s something she’s going to have to learn the hard way. No sense coddling her.”

  Instead of admitting his friend was right, Duncan drummed his fingers on the Stetson on his lap. Finally, looking to Daymon, he said, “You telling the truth about the redhead?”

  Daymon said nothing.

  Seeing a sly smirk alter his friend’s usually stony countenance, Duncan chuckled. “Sonja, my butt.”

  Chapter 12

  At the end of a long, hard cry, Raven remained seated on the bench, fingers on one hand worrying the pair of wedding rings on the chain around her neck, fingers on the other tracing the bestowment plaque’s raised letters. She stayed like that, eyes closed, as the events of the last couple of months flicked through her mind like jittery images on an old movie reel.

  After spending an indeterminate amount of time thinking about the past, her eyes snapped open, real sudden, as if she’d just arrived at some kind of monumental decision.

  Wiping the remnants of grief from her cheeks, she rose and retraced her steps back to where she’d been let out of the Bronco.

  Standing on Pikes Place, with the cream-colored hotel looming over her, she had never felt smaller.

  Looking up, she saw the wood and stainless railing fronting the balcony to her corner room. Panning her gaze right, she saw similar balconies behind the same run of railing. Though she knew her friends were likely behind the drawn blackout drapes, the long run of unoccupied balconies made the place seem abandoned.

  Not quite ready to do the people thing, Raven trudged east a block and followed the sidewalk as it jogged right to eventually parallel Cascade Avenue.

  She had to walk through a series of interconnected wood pergolas to get to the path leading to the luxury hotel. The path led to the half-circle drive that culminated at a carport, its high ceiling supported by stacked-stone columns.

  Beyond the carport was a set of marble stairs leading to a wide landing flanked by planters full of dead flowers. The front doors to the Antlers were twin glass sliders. Rendered inoperable due to the lobby breakers being thrown, a pair of pull doors on either side of the powered panels allowed access to the darkened lobby.

  Since the sun was still hovering somewhere behind the Garden of the Gods, the side doors were not locked. In another hour or so, once night fell, the doors would be locked, and the all-volunteer building watch would begin patrolling the premises.

  The precursor to the volunteer patrols, a sign that read Quiet In The Halls! Respect Your Fellow Tenants remained taped to the inside of the glass sliders.

  All alone and about to enter the gloomy lobby, Raven paused long enough to drag the Glock 19 from the drop-thigh holster strapped to her right leg. A quick press check assured her a round was in the pipe.

  As Raven pushed through the swinging glass door, in her head, she heard her dad urging her to Stay frosty.

  The hotel lobby was decorated with touches of the Old West: forked antler light sconces topped with leather shades hung on the wall behind the mahogany front desk. Oil paintings of frontier scenes adorned the lobby walls. A bronze statue of a cowboy breaking a wild bronco sat on a high shelf near the elevators.

  Opposite the front desk, Shaker-style furniture with colorful cushions featuring a Navajo print huddled in front of a river-stone fireplace seeing frequent use now that winter was in full swing.

  Reminiscent of the warm colors of the southwest desert, the floors from the entry to the bank of elevators were finished with a mix of sandstone, travertine, and marble tiles. Some kind of polished metal inlay was interwoven through all of it.

  The walls were white all around. Running the length of the lobby were a half-dozen two-by-two columns paneled in wood a shade darker than the oak front desk. To Raven the wood looked like walnut, the same dark wood used for the floors in their house back in Portland.

  Eschewing the elevator, which was known to pause between floors on occasion, Raven made her way to the stairs.

  The door to the stairs was propped open, the interior awash in the dull yellow glow of emergency lighting.

  The second Raven entered the stairwell, she detected the stench of death mingling with pine, vanilla, strawberry, and new-car-smell.

  After giving the shadows under the stairs and behind the door a little scrutiny, she pressed the Glock to her thigh and approached the first of twenty-six identical runs of stairs. Gripping the rail and putting her Danner on the first of three hundred and ninety carpeted steps—steps she knew all too well—she paused and peered up between the rails.

  It was the first step … the getting going, that was always the hardest. Every time she stood her
e looking up at the distant, dim golden spill infiltrating the distant rectangular skylight, a story her dad had recounted to her and Peter the day he was taken came rushing back. Though she knew this wasn’t Canada’s version of the CDC, and getting to and from her room was never comparable in danger or difficulty to her dad donning night vision gear and leading frightened scientists down a pitch-black stairway all the while being groped by dozens of living dead, she was fully aware that Murphy—of Murphy’s Law fame—was always trying to insert himself into the equation.

  Once her eyes had adjusted to the change in lighting, she spied the colorful clutter of hundreds of air freshener trees tenants had been tying to the handrails since the practice had been adopted a day or two after the hotel was liberated from the dead.

  Unlike the Z-choked stairs her dad had emerged from unscathed, here she saw no flitting shadows. No gnarled hands gripping the rails. Heard no wet footfalls or hollow, rasping moans echoing in the enclosed space.

  She was alone. However, there was evidence on the carpeted treads and papered walls that at one time living dead had been trapped in here. To make matters worse, after the Zs had all been culled, the stairwell was used as a temporary depository for their corpses.

  On a run of three discolored steps eye-level to her was a yellow-green stain of long-dried bodily fluids that still reeked to high heaven. Near the first landing, high up on a wall, were a number of hand-shaped red splotches that no amount of scrubbing could remove.

  Throwing a shiver, she started up the stairs.

  Leading with the Glock’s business end, and giving each blind turn a quick turkey peek, she made it to the thirteenth floor in just under seven minutes.

  Heartbeat returning to normal, she stood before the door to her room. A plaque on the door read Suite 272.

  She slipped the keycard in the reader. Seeing the light go from red to green, she worked the brass handle and entered her room.

  Once inside, with the door secured, Raven dropped her pack on the floor and poked her head into the bathroom. Seeing everything was as she’d left it, she stepped into the short hall and let her gaze roam the rest of the room.