District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Cade interrupted. “Speaking of Pickel Meadows … how are the Marines there holding up?”

  “Like they should be. Captain Swarr and his boys are kicking ass and taking names. They’ve got the Chinese battalion fractured and on the run. Scattered to the wind like a dried-out dandelion.”

  “Squirters?” he asked.

  “Just the advance element that got by their northern FOB days ago,” Nash replied, and went quiet.

  On the other end of the line Cade heard his favorite Air Force officer draw in a deep breath. Simultaneously, on the screen in front of Heidi, he picked up movement on the lower right partition.

  Nash picked up after a long beat. She said, “I’m guessing your undead PLA recon scouts were some of the first wave. Hell, there were so many beachheads up and down the West Coast, California and Oregon, that we’re just now getting a handle on how many troops they were able to land. A battalion or two is our best estimate. No doubt the Zs chewed up a good number of them the moment their landing craft hit land.”

  “But?” Cade said.

  “Half to three-quarters of them likely made it inland.” Nash went quiet for a few seconds then said, “We are facing an invasion force on American soil. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. The East Coast will be seeing landings in the coming days and we don’t have enough active subs or surface ships to interdict all of the PLA Navy vessels in transit. I’m afraid the West Coast is nothing compared to what is coming.”

  Now Cade went silent as he watched on the screen the woods surrounding the feeder road disgorge an eighteen-wheeler, its squared-off snout and wide cab making the surrounding tree limbs and ground-hugging bushes dance and send airborne the few colorful leaves still clinging to their skeletal branches. As the sun glinted off the gleaming chrome tank riding out back, Cade posed his next question—one that he had been eager to ask for some time.

  “What about the Pacific Northwest?”

  “You mean Portland, specifically?”

  “Saw right through me,” Cade admitted. “Yeah … I’m curious to know how Portland is faring. And to a lesser extent Seattle and the coastline from Coos Bay on up to Puget Sound.”

  “That all?” Nash said, her voice carrying a hint of incredulity. “I thought I sent you footage of Portland prior to you going off to Los Angeles. I did thank you for rescuing my girl … didn’t I?”

  “The footage of Portland was eye-opening,” Cade said. And it worked at getting me back in, he thought. “But that was all captured before the PLA Navy broke through your pickets. About the mission to L.A. Are the FEMA hard drives producing the intel you hoped they would?”

  “And then some,” she said. “Using the individual logs of the rescue birds coming and going from the Long Beach facility we were able to locate and rescue dozens of surviving HVTs (High Value Targets) before the Chinese Navy made landfall. Consequently, they’ve been instrumental in getting Springs up and running.”

  “You knew about the PLA fleet before L.A.?”

  “It was need-to-know, Wyatt. President’s orders. Besides, you, Ari … the team. None of you were in any danger. All of us watching from the op center had zero confidence that the lead destroyer’s active phased-array radar could pick up Jedi One. If, and I mean a helluva longshot if, that Ghost Hawk somehow was painted, the PLA seaman watching the scope would have thought the blip was a flock of seagulls.”

  “Flock of seagulls … so says the chair force Major sitting in her air-conditioned office behind the wire and separated from said destroyer and escorts by eight hundred miles and a formidable mountain range.” Instantly Cade regretted his words. And as a result of his not employing his usual filter between brain and mouth, there was a long uncomfortable silence, during which he heard that awful eighties new-wave synth-heavy A Flock of Seagulls song, I Ran, fire up in his head. Meanwhile, on the security monitor, whoever was behind the wheel of the semi-truck had backed it up expertly and left it parked alongside a similar rig containing a full load of LNG—liquefied natural gas—compliments of Alexander Dregan, who had undoubtedly sent this rig and the precious fuel contained within the massive chrome-plated tank.

  After a long five-count Nash responded to the criticism in an even voice. “I’m with you and the men every time you go down range. In fact, I lose a chunk of my soul when one of you fall. I’d hoped you knew that by now, Cade.”

  “I’m sorry. That was a low blow to your upstanding character.”

  “And if you believe the rumors,” Nash quipped, “that was also a direct hit to my family jewels.”

  If only she knew the true extent of the good-natured ribbing she suffered from the shooters her satellites watched over. Suppressing a chuckle, Cade rose from the chair, phone still pressed to his ear.

  Nash went on, “I don’t want to say more than I have to over this unsecure line, so I’ll have a brief for you when the bird arrives to pick you up.”

  “And what time will that be?”

  Cade looked at Heidi, who was looking at him while he concentrated hard on what Nash had to say.

  Seeing Cade glance at his Suunto and his usual stoic expression morph to one revealing a hint of exasperation, Heidi wisely turned her attention back to the action topside. On one partition she saw that the mid-point gate on the feeder road was closed, as it should be. On the two adjacent panels the video feed picked up nothing moving near the camouflaged main gate nor on the length of state route in both directions. No zombies. Which was strange, because something as noisy as a fuel-laden semi barreling down the state route usually drew in rotting monsters like moths to a flame. As she scrutinized the video on the middle panes the camera covering the grassy meadow and runway picked up a new development. One that might put her in the middle of whatever the call was about. So, hoping to avoid even a hint of confrontation, she tugged on Cade’s tee shirt and stabbed a finger at the monitor.

  In the center pane Cade saw that the pow-wow had broken up and people were boarding a trio of pickup trucks—the newly arrived tanker driver among them. He also saw Brook walking towards the camera, which just so happened to be positioned outside the compound entrance twenty feet to his left. Seeing this, he hurriedly finished the call with Nash, thumbed the sat-phone off and put it back up on the shelf—the entire time shooting Heidi a harried look that could only be construed as: Let’s keep this between us. He hustled back to his quarters.

  Heidi began to say something, but was interrupted by a grating of metal on metal that drew her attention to the inky gloom of the nearby foyer. There was a clomping of boots on wood and suddenly Brook’s petite frame was filling up one end of the cramped space.

  Breathing hard from exertion, Brook locked eyes with Heidi for a half-beat before regarding the trio of sat-phones on the top shelf. She let her gaze linger there briefly, then regarded Heidi.

  Wearing a startled look, Heidi blurted, “What?”

  “Something you want to tell me?”

  A dead giveaway, Heidi’s gaze inched up to the satellite phones.

  “Who called?” Brook demanded, her hands going to her hips, the left inadvertently settling on her holstered Glock.

  Busted. Heidi sighed as she scooped up the phone Cade had just replaced on the shelf. Handing it over her shoulder, she said, “Best if you go into the call log and see for yourself.”

  “You’re a quick study, Heidi.” Brook took the phone and thumbed it on. “Plausible deniability. Straight out of Cade’s playbook.”

  Heidi didn’t respond. The hole she’d dug herself was already deep enough. And this little attempted cover-up had come just as she seemed to be getting back on the intense woman’s good side. Returning her attention to the monitor, she watched the trio of trucks motor away from the center gate. In the ensuing seconds between the three-vehicle convoy slipping from view of the mid-road camera and reappearing on the one trained on the run-up to the main gate, out of the corner of her eye she saw Brook scroll to the call log. There was a second of silence, then Brook was c
ursing under her breath.

  As the convoy pulled close to the main gate, Heidi took her eyes off the monitor and regarded Brook. “Everything good?”

  Clearly in need of help staying on her feet, Brook put her left hand on Heidi’s shoulder and leaned against the low desk to her right.

  Heidi placed her hand atop Brook’s. “Still getting the dizzy spells from the antiserum … or is this a result of Nash calling your man again?” She continued to watch the monitor as her new fiancé hopped from the lead vehicle and stalked to the gate, leaving the driver’s door wide open.

  “A little of both,” Brook conceded. “More from the latter, though. It’s not like Nash to deliver good news over the phone.”

  Heidi said, “If it’s any consolation, my man is leaving the wire, too.”

  Brook turned her hand over. She clutched Heidi’s hand and looked her in the eye. “Glad we’re in the same boat.” Forcing a half-smile, she released her grip, turned, and set off for her quarters.

  Heidi watched until Brook had disappeared around the corner. Then, when she turned her previously divided attention back to the monitor, she saw dead things congregating outside the gate in twos and threes. In the next beat Daymon was luring the monsters away from the gate, the fence paralleling the road the only thing keeping them at bay.

  “Be careful,” she said aloud, watching Daymon cull the monsters with swift chops to the head from his trusty green-handled machete.

  Outside the door to the Grayson Quarters, Brook paused to collect her thoughts. What was the worst news Nash could have added to the already shitty prospect of having Cade go down range? Have him do so undermanned and without proper air support and terrible rules of engagement? Oh wait, she mused bitterly, that’s what he’d been doing those last couple of months on the teams before opting to cycle out and come home to her for good. And, unfortunately, some of that crap had resumed after he’d been drawn back into Desantos’ and Nash’s orbit. Only this time, she couldn’t blame Cade coming home in a body bag on the feckless actions of lawyered-up politicians trying to run a hot war by proxy from walnut-paneled offices thousands of miles away. If something should happen to Cade this time around, she would have nobody to blame but herself. And that was acceptable. Because, Lord knows, the only child was doing what he loved. Moreover, unlike that final year running ops with the teams, he was doing it now for all the right reasons.

  Cade’s voice carried through the door, reaching Brook’s ears in the hall. “You going to come in, or just stand out there and block the light under the door?”

  “I’m coming in,” Brook called. “Are you decent?”

  Still talking through the door, he responded, “Not for long, if I have anything to say about it.”

  Chuckling, Brook pushed the door open with her left hand. In the light of the sixty-watt bulb she saw her husband. The gray woolen blanket was covering him from his shins to his waist. His left leg was propped up on the near end of the bunk. Brown liquid eyes tracked her as she closed the door.

  “Which news do you want to hear first,” he asked. “The bad or the good?”

  “The bad,” Brook answered.

  “Better sit.”

  She moved to the bunk and sat next to him. “But I want to hear the bad after I’ve had my way with you.”

  Cade sat up and removed his shirt, exposing chiseled abs and an apocalypse-honed upper body. Reclining, he watched his wife reciprocate, grimacing as the cotton tee shirt cleared her high ponytail.

  Right arm hung up in the sleeve, she said, “A little help here?”

  “First things first,” Cade said. Sitting up, he snagged the string to the light and tugged. As the room was plunged into total darkness, he wrapped Brook in a bear hug and dragged her into bed with him.

  Chapter 4

  “Come on,” Daymon called from the fence. “I’m going to need some help getting the bodies moved before more of the flesh-bags arrive.”

  Wilson was already out of the Raptor and edging past Daymon’s Chevy. He paused at the passenger door, looked in at Oliver and saw fear in the man’s eyes. Disregarding it as a part of their new normal, he shook his head subtly and pushed past the undergrowth crowding the road.

  Lev jumped from the borrowed F-650 and turned back toward the open door. “Stay, Max,” he said to the brindle Australian Shepherd that had adopted Raven and Brook back at Schriever weeks ago. Since coming along with the Graysons on their cross-country trek from Forward Operating Base Bastion on the Colorado border to the Eden compound in rural Utah, the inquisitive canine had taken to every member of the small band of survivors.

  Regarding the veteran of the 2004 Iraq invasion with his dual-colored eyes, Max yawned and stayed put, his stub tail thumping a steady cadence on Jamie’s thigh.

  “He’s no dummy, Lev,” Jamie said, scratching the dog behind his cropped ears. “Close the door … it’s not summer.”

  After complying fully without acknowledging the brunette’s quip, Lev turned his back to the idling F-650 and scanned the road behind the super-sized pickup.

  Clear.

  “Checking your six” is what Cade called the practice that came naturally to Lev, a former 11 Bravo infantryman in the Big Green Machine, as Duncan was fond of calling the United States Army—past and present. Easy to remember, the lexicon well-known among combat veterans had become popular with the younger Eden survivors. Which was a good thing for a generation brought up with all manner of handheld electronic devices constantly vying for their attention. And save for a couple of recent slip-ups, the handful of civilian members in their rag tag little band seemed to be adopting the practice.

  Head on a swivel. No better way to stay alive, that was for sure, Lev reflected. It was standard operating procedure that had seen him come home from the sandbox in one piece, and, so far, a routine that had kept him walking on the right side of the dirt even after a worldwide virus had decimated humanity’s ranks.

  Arriving at the gate last, Dregan’s man, a ruddy-faced fella calling himself Cleo, exited the 4Runner given to him for the return trip to Bear River. Without a word of complaint, he strode past the lined-up vehicles to the state route and pitched in by helping Wilson and Daymon drag the leaking bodies off the road. A half-dozen black trails leading from the front of the open gate to the far ditch told him the men had been making quick work of the grisly task.

  Lev bent over and grabbed a female cadaver by the ankles, the skin sloughing off in his hands as he pulled the body across the two-lane. “Where the hell is Oliver?” he said to nobody in particular.

  Hitching a thumb over his shoulder, Daymon said, “He pussed out.”

  After rolling the corpse of a young boy into the ditch with a nudge of his combat boot, Wilson scanned the road in both directions. “Still clear,” he observed. “Someone going to tell Oliver he needs to start pulling his weight … or do I have to do it?”

  Daymon encircled two thin wrists in one gloved hand and trudged across the road, the dead Z’s skull producing a hollow keening as it grated along the asphalt. Unceremoniously, as if he were bucking a bale of hay into a truck, he heaved the shell of a former human atop the others. “Let it go,” Daymon said. “I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “Straighten him out,” Wilson said, glancing toward the vehicles clogging the feeder road. “Or I will.”

  Lev paused, one hand gripping the wrist of another dead thing, the other, out of habit, resting on the butt of the Beretta riding on his hip. Eyebrows hitching in the middle, he regarded the redhead in the floppy camouflage boonie hat. “I see that someone watered his balls this morning.”

  “From this point on I’m not letting anything slide,” Wilson shot. “Not Sasha’s bullshit. Not Oliver’s staying in the truck while we do the dirty work. Nothing. Fuck sake, even Cleo is getting his hands dirty.” Breathing hard, he leaned forward and began dragging a portly corpse toward the ditch where the others were being deposited. Boots scraping the roadway, he fumed inside. Inwardly, in a
roundabout way, he was still blaming himself for not keeping his sister in line. While he was away during the recent freak snowstorm, the petulant fourteen-year-old’s actions had jeopardized the lives of every person who called the compound home. Never again was he going to worry about hurting anyone’s feelings. Pupa into a pissed-off butterfly, if you will.

  Daymon walked over to the last of the twice-dead Zs. “Uh, oh,” he said, ignoring the leaking body at his feet. “Looks like we missed one.” In the ditch, partially obscured by the out of control weeds growing there, was a near skeletal specimen. “First Turn” was what survivors had taken to calling the ones that showed evidence of lots of wear and tear. “Crawler” was what Daymon called the thing he was staring down on.

  Meeting Daymon’s gaze, the thing hissed and raked its fingernails across the toes of his boots. How the deflating tire sound made it out of the hole passing for a throat escaped him. The noise, however, made the hairs on his arms prick up.

  “I’ll take care of it,” Wilson spat. “You take care of Oliver.” The man’s name rolled off the redhead’s tongue dripping with venom.

  Daymon shrugged and stepped aside. As he cleaned his machete, aptly nicknamed Kindness, on the long grass, he watched Wilson jam a folding knife to the hilt in the crawler’s eye socket. Then, after slipping the machete into its scabbard, he rose and regarded Wilson with a hard stare. “I’ll figure out what Oliver’s deal is,” he promised, then turned and stalked off towards the awaiting Chevy, the specter of the looming interrogation already troubling him.

  Chapter 5

  Daymon waited until they were several miles east on State Route 39 and nearing the quarry feeder road before broaching the subject of Oliver’s strange new behavior. Slowing the Chevy a bit on a long straightaway, he drew a deep breath and cast a sidelong glance at the man next to him.

  Sensing the change in speed, Oliver shifted in his seat and met Daymon’s chilly one-eyed glare. “What?” he asked, straining against the shoulder belt as he squared up with the dreadlocked driver.