District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Turning back to help Nancy with her coat, a bullet grazed Sid’s cheek, sending him to the ground where suddenly he found himself within arm’s reach of an emaciated female cadaver. Drawing in a mouthful of carrion-tinged air, his eyes were drawn from Nancy to the creature’s bare feet and on up to its horribly shredded mid-section that, judging by the advanced state of decay the remaining organs had suffered, had been exposed to the full wrath of the elements since the early days of the outbreak.

  Hearing Nancy cry out, Sid scrambled backwards on hands and feet toward her.

  More bullets scythed overhead, crackling and hissing. Two of the advancing dead fell under the withering fire, landing equidistant between Sid and his wife. Still locked onto Sid like a meat-seeking missile, the female zombie plodded through the sucking mud.

  Finally, lamenting the fact that his vision was blurring and he was unable to move faster on his back across the open ground than the undead woman with what amounted to barely bungee cords for core muscles, Sid raised his hands defensively and focused his gaze on the hollow of her neck.

  Feeling the sting where a flying fragment of rock or, God forbid, bone shard from one of the fallen zombies had cut a jagged inch-long wound on her shoulder, Nancy extricated her forearm and hand from the sodden sleeve. With the angry noise of bullets flying by her head, she turned toward Sid just in time to see the female zombie’s toothy sneer erased by a final long fusillade of gunfire coming from the direction of the state route.

  The pasture suddenly went deathly quiet.

  Casting her eyes groundward, Nancy waited for the bullets to tear into her and Sid. But none came. Which caused her to wonder why. Reluctantly, she swung her gaze up and around and saw that the other walking corpses had been cut down before they could fully flank her husband, who was now on his hands and knees and surrounded by their bullet-riddled corpses.

  From out of sight a familiar, gruff female voice said, “Don’t move!”

  Nancy could feel the beginnings of an icy ball forming in her gut. She looked at her good right hand and it dawned on her why the dead had been gunned down instead of her and Sid.

  “Stand up,” the same voice ordered.

  Nancy saw black combat boots in her peripheral. Then a long gun barrel, a curl of smoke wafting from it, entered the picture. Finally, she walked her eyes up the woman’s quilted snow pants and regarded her silver and turquoise belt buckle which struck her instantly as Native-American-made. It was very ornate. Dozens of light green shards of stone had been fashioned into the shape of a gecko. Zuni in nature, maybe. Nothing bought in a New Mexico gift store, for sure.

  She felt the rough leather of a black glove brush the soft flesh under her chin. Then iron fingers gripped her jaw and lifted her head up, forcing her to meet the woman’s steely glare.

  “Don’t take us back there,” Nancy said breathlessly, as the noise of engines firing carried from far off down the state route.

  “I have no plans of doing anything of the sort,” the woman said, grinning wickedly as Sid, already bound at the wrists and ankles with thick plastic zip ties, was thrown to the ground near her muddy boots.

  Nancy lowered her gaze and delivered a look to Sid that said: I love you. A tick later, in her peripheral vision, she saw the woman gripping her jaw receive a black parcel handed to her by one of the others.

  Mercifully, the woman let go of Nancy and in the same motion set the kit on the uneven, soggy ground. Then, with the slow, calculated precision of a Swiss watchmaker, the big hulk of a woman pulled the thick leather cords and unrolled the foot-long item with a practiced underhanded flip.

  There was a rattle of metal on metal as the four-foot-long rectangle of treated black leather unfurled. A strong odor of cowhide fought with the stench of the gunned-down corpses.

  Sid saw Nancy’s rigid body go limp. The fight was gone from her. As was the last shred of dignity their escape had fomented in the strong-willed woman. He craned his neck and regarded the big woman everyone called Mom. Though nearly every square inch of her was covered in black leather, it didn’t hide the fact that she was morbidly overweight. Her lips curled at the corners, showing off pristine enamel, as she withdrew a wicked-looking knife from a slot amongst the squared-off bone saws and myriad other stainless steel rendering tools.

  Sid looked at Nancy and was relieved to see that she had apparently fainted. Which was a good thing, because he would be first to go and wouldn’t have to witness what they had in store for her body. And as he steeled himself for the first sting of the butcher’s blade, he relived the moment the woman brandishing the knife had severed Nancy’s hand and awarded it to the blonde and blue-eyed woman who had captured them at the farmhouse outside of Eden, Utah the day before.

  Suddenly a thumb found its way into Sid’s eye socket, bringing him back to the present and causing a flash of white hot pain to flood his brain. Next, gloved fingers clamped over his mouth and his head was drawn back, the corded muscles in his neck stretched to their limits.

  Through his one good eye, Sid saw the patch of snow below him go red with his steaming blood. A biting metallic odor hit his nose and suddenly there was a strange warmth coursing through his body. In the end there was light. And in that light the faint outline of what had to be his boy, tiny arms outstretched, a knowing smile on his face.

  Strange what endorphins could do to a man, was Sid’s last thought before the lifelong atheist’s wildly flailing arms and kicking feet ceased moving, the mud angel beneath his prostrate corpse truly a work of art.

  Chapter 2

  Cade Grayson rattled four 200-milligram ibuprofen into his palm, popped them in his mouth and washed them down with a swallow of water. He leaned forward on the folding chair and set his plate and fork on the small table next to the door of the particular Conex container in the subterranean redoubt that had come to be known affectionately by all of its tenants as the “Grayson Quarters.” With room enough for a trio of bunkbeds—and not much else—the place was about as close to home as anything Cade had known since fleeing the Graysons’ two-story Craftsman in Portland, Oregon on that fateful day in late July when the newly dead began to rise.

  “Raven,” he called through the open sheet of steel serving as a door. “Time to police up the dishes. And bring your partner in crime with you.”

  There were footsteps on the plywood floor and suddenly Tran was standing an arm’s reach from Cade. Wearing his easy smile, the slight man tucked a graying lock of his dark hair behind an ear and raised a brow.

  “What’s up, Tran?”

  “I’ll get your plate.”

  “Oh no you won’t, Tran,” Brook Grayson called from her perch on the top bunk of the nearest set of steel Army-issue equipment. “Those girls earned the privilege of ninety days KP.”

  Cade piped up, “At least ninety days. Besides … you did all of the work whipping up dinner for ... twelve?”

  “Thirteen, counting you,” Tran said, his smile growing wider.

  More footsteps approached from down the corridor, out of sight behind Tran.

  “Damn fine meal. Venison?” Cade asked.

  Tran nodded. “You can thank Daymon for the meat. He bagged it up at the quarry late last night.”

  Propped up on one elbow, her face lost in the gloom near the ribbed metal ceiling, Brook said, “What was he doing at the quarry?”

  Tran shrugged as first Raven, then Sasha—a head taller than the Asian man, on account of her wild thicket of red hair—squeezed past him and edged sideways into the Grayson Quarters. Silently, without making eye contact, the girls took the camp plates and silverware and left the narrow room as they had arrived.

  Back pressing the corridor wall, Tran watched them go. When he looked back through the door, he glanced up and met the dark-haired woman’s gaze.

  “Chilly reception,” Brook said. “How’s it going topside?”

  “It’s been real quiet. Heidi and Seth are manning the cameras. A few of the others are gearing up. They�
�re going to use the break in the weather to go foraging north of Woodruff.”

  Grimacing, Cade leaned forward and snatched his water from the table. “Who all’s going?”

  Tran shrugged. “I saw Daymon, Lev, and Jamie cleaning weapons. But there were at least six packs on the ground under the Raptor’s tailgate.”

  Since the Raptor was Taryn’s ride, Brook cocked her head and asked the obvious, “Taryn and Wilson are going, too?”

  Again, Tran shrugged. Then he flashed Cade and Brook an arched brow look. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, there is,” Brook said. She crawled down from the bunk and approached Tran. Standing toe-to-toe with the man she matched in height and basic build, she whispered, “Me and Cade have placed the girls under a pseudo house arrest until further notice.”

  With Cade looking on silently, Tran nodded.

  Buying a moment to think, Brook adjusted her ball cap. Finally, after meeting Cade’s gaze and seeming to have read his mind, she said, “I need you to be our eyes and ears when we’re not around. If you see or hear the girls scheming or going near the entrance without one of us—or Wilson, in Sasha’s case—you have my permission to detain them.”

  Face wearing a look of understanding, Tran nodded, then backed away from the door and disappeared down the corridor to the right.

  Cade pulled the folding chair nearer to him and adjusted the pillow his still swollen left foot was propped up on. “I hate to do that to the girls. Especially Raven, but pardon the pun on this one, our Bird doesn’t have a leg to stand on after that stuff she pulled. Nor does Sasha for instigating.”

  “Thank God it ended well,” Brook noted. “I think Raven may have learned her lesson.”

  Cade nodded in agreement. “I concur. Raven’s following days are over, that’s for sure.”

  “Keep that foot up, Cade Grayson … or this nurse isn’t going to sign off on your next mission.”

  Smiling, Cade said, “I’ll just go and get a second opinion.”

  Brook guffawed. “Glenda Gladson is not going to take your side of this matter.” Issuing a playful glare, she put her hands on her hips.

  “I’ve got an ace in my hand.”

  “Duncan?”

  Cade nodded.

  “He’s of sound mind now. He’ll do whatever his lady friend tells him to do.”

  Conceding her point, Cade said, “I might just have a little dirt on Old Man.”

  “Liar.”

  Cade tried to keep a straight face, but in the end he couldn’t lie to Brook. Never had. Never would. So his lips parted with a revealing shit-eating grin.

  Brook wagged a finger at her man. “Toes above the nose, Grayson. You’re almost there.”

  “By tomorrow?”

  “By tomorrow, do you mean during the day?” Arching a brow, she took a deep breath. “Or tonight at one minute after midnight?”

  Cade’s game face was back. “Closer to the latter,” he replied, flatly.

  Exiting the room, Brook shot Cade a no-nonsense look and repeated her earlier admonition. “Toes above the nose, Mr. Grayson.”

  Smile fading, Cade threw a crisp salute at the closing door and, without missing a beat, rose from the folding chair, testing the ankle.

  Good to go, he told himself, the grimace fading along with the resulting stab of pain. However, rather than following nurse’s orders and getting back under the covers on the bottom bunk and propping his foot up on the tubular metal footboard, he looped around the bunk, unlatched his Pelican gear box, and hinged the lid open.

  Instantly the familiar and comforting smell of Hoppe’s #9 gun oil filled the air. The grimace returning, he knelt next to the box and, working on a sort of autopilot mode, grabbed his gear and weapons from the box and started in on the time-consuming process of getting each piece of kit ready for his upcoming mission.

  Chapter 3

  Cade quickly stripped down his pair of Glocks—one a full-sized 17, the other a compact 19—and laid out the pieces neatly on the table. After meticulously cleaning and oiling each individual part, he reassembled the polymer semi-automatic pistols, snugged them in their respective holsters, and placed them on the freshly made bunk beside his trusty M4 carbine.

  Next, he unfolded a pair of black pants and blouse—both identical in cut and fit to his MultiCam fatigues—and laid them on the bed by the weapons. Both articles of clothing were fashioned from heavy mil-spec ripstop fabric and had rubberized pads affixed to the knees and elbows.

  Drawing a deep breath, he sat back down on the folding chair and, while gently massaging his swollen ankle, quickly went through his mental pre-op to-do list. Gerber sharpened? Check. Fresh batteries in the EOTech holographic optic atop his cleaned and oiled M4? Check. Suppressor threads cleaned and inspected and can replaced hand-tight onto the barrel? Check. Night vision goggles tested and stowed away, powered down? Check. Ankle one hundred percent? Not even close. However, he figured after the long helo ride east, a little shuteye along the way with a thousand-plus more milligrams of ibuprofen hard at work on the swelling, once they were wheels down he’d be able to stow any residual pain in the same compartment his emotions went in every time he was pulled away from family and friends. Besides, he mused, this wouldn’t be the first time getting into the shit with the same chronically bum ankle. To be precise, it’d be the third time, and once the dead came into play—or, more likely in this case, the bullets began to fly—the adrenaline would kick in and, as always, pain would be secondary to completing the mission and coming home in one uninfected piece to his little family.

  His routine was battle-tested and had worked before. Why wouldn’t it this time? After a millisecond’s reflection, the details of the mission started piling on all akimbo, like a game of Tetris lost on the first misplayed game tile. So he willed his own inner voice to forget the question. Ordered it to not even go there. Because if the number of enemy he had seen on the videos beamed by Nash to his laptop the day before were any indication as to what he and the team could be facing downrange, he didn’t want to ponder the big picture. Better to take small bites from the enemy. Hit them head on with extreme violence of action, spit them out destroyed and mangled, and move on to the next obstacle. Best to keep it all compartmentalized; like his emotions had to remain.

  A woman’s voice calling his name loudly enough to be heard through the closed metal door ripped him from the battle being waged in his head.

  “Cade!”

  Heidi?

  “Hear you loud and clear,” he bellowed back. “Be there in a moment.”

  Eschewing the crutches, and risking an ass-chewing from Brook if she saw him in the corridors without them, he rose and made his way to the security pod, again testing his bad wheel’s load-bearing ability.

  Upon turning the corner, he was confronted with the blonde who had hollered his name. Heidi’s arm was outstretched, a thin black sat-phone clutched in her small hand. On her face was a smile Cade guessed to be derived entirely from the satisfaction she must be feeling from having not missed the incoming call—regardless of who might be waiting on the other end.

  Making slow progress toward the offered phone, Cade lifted his brows and whispered, “Who is it?”

  Can’t be good.

  “A woman,” Heidi replied, making no effort to lower her voice, thusly completely destroying any chance of Cade buying a few minutes to think by having Heidi tell the caller a little white lie.

  Waving Heidi off, Cade mouthed, “Tell her I will call her back,” and began a slow backpedal toward his quarters.

  “It’s Nash, I think,” Heidi said, a little louder this time, all the while flashing a careful what you wish for smile and pumping the hand holding the phone at Cade—universal semaphore for take the damn call!

  Hell!

  “Nash … oh, good,” Cade replied loudly, laying it on thick while at the same time giving Heidi a mild case of stink eye. “Can’t wait to hear what she has to say.” Definitely a white lie.

 
Smile fading fast, Heidi relinquished the phone and turned back to the flat-panel. One ear cocked, she feigned intense scrutiny on the feed showing Brook and Duncan in the motor pool conversing with Daymon and Oliver. Someone—probably Jimmy Foley—was working under the Chevy’s hood, only his backside showing.

  Cade’s fingers curled around the phone much tighter than he’d meant them to. Before putting the handset to his ear, he stole a look at the monitor and saw the same scene Heidi was presented with: a good old-fashioned jawing session with Duncan occupying center stage. And that meant good money was on Brook not coming back anytime soon.

  “Cade here,” he said, turning his back to Heidi.

  There was a short delay during which he heard only the usual electronic hiss as his words were bounced up into the stratosphere, relayed through one of the few remaining military satellites and returned to Earth, presumably, at Schriever Air Force Base four hundred and twenty-five miles south by east as the crow flies.

  Finally, a female voice said, “Wyatt … you avoiding me?”

  Effin Jedi mind reader.

  “No, Major,” Cade lied. “Just collecting my thoughts, that’s all. What’s up?”

  Right to the point. Nash said, “Change of plans.”

  Cade said nothing. Sweeping his gaze back to the flat-panel monitor, he slid a folding chair out and took a seat.

  “We underestimated the enemy’s speed of advance. When I finally got real-time satellite reconnaissance back on station, finding them took some time. When we reacquired, we found that they had split in two.”

  “I watched the drone footage,” Cade replied. “Even if it split … it’d be impossible to miss a column of that size. Especially from orbit considering the Key Hole’s advanced optics.”

  “You know we’re stretched thin in the recon-sat department. I’ve got one parked over the California/Nevada border watching the Mountain Warfare Training Center—”