District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Not one to mince words, Daymon said, “What the fuck was that back there?”

  “What was what?”

  Facing forward now, Daymon sighed. “The inaction on your part back there at the gate. You stayed in the truck like a little—.” Reining in his rising anger, Daymon went silent, tightened his grip on the wheel and steered the nearly new four-by-four pickup through a gentle left-hand sweeper. Trees growing up from the sodden bank on the right side partially shielded the turbid Ogden River from view. To their left, the small mountain the abandoned rock quarry was perched upon rose several hundred feet from the road, partially blocking the watery early morning sun.

  “Bitch. That’s the word you swallowed, right? Newsflash, Daymon. I’m guilty as charged.” His green eyes darkened. “Oliver frickin Gladson is a goddamn fraud who is deathly afraid of living corpses. Have been since the first time I left the Pacific Crest Trail to resupply and saw the dead grocery clerk with his throat torn out walking the aisles and bloodying up his store. So there. You have it straight out of the horse’s mouth. I’m a frickin coward.”

  Daymon’s shoulders slumped subtly as the quarry entrance blipped by on the left. Shortly after, on their right, the rectangular sign announcing the feeder road to the long-abandoned Smith mining operation loomed. It had been shot up from behind. Big holes blown right through it that left twisted triangles of sharp metal jutting forward and the words on its face barely recognizable. Daymon made a mental note to himself to ask the others in the trailing vehicles if they remembered the sign being bullet-pocked.

  Uncomfortable in the silence permeating the cab, Oliver removed his black stocking cap and ran his hand through the unruly ring of graying hair.

  Finally, Daymon said, “What about the early legs of the Pacific Crest Trail in California? With all of those people in Cali surely you had some run-ins with the dead.”

  “I didn’t see anything for days after the outbreak. I had no radio. Wouldn’t have gotten good reception where I was anyway. So everything I heard about the dead coming back to life came from trail angels and other through hikers. Needless to say, I was skeptical. So I took it all with a grain of salt and forged ahead.”

  Seeing something lying across the road a good distance ahead—basically just a horizontal shadow at this point—Daymon flicked his eyes to the mirror to see what kind of following distance Taryn was observing.

  As always, the former dirt track racer had her white pickup tucked in tight to his bumper. In fact, she was so close—Nascar drafting close—that he couldn’t see the prominent FORD logo on the matte-black grill. Worried that if he stood on the brakes the white Raptor and its young occupants would become the frosting center in a big metal Oreo consisting of the black Chevy up front, and the massive F-650 behind, he tapped his brakes three times to back her off, then slowed to the posted thirty-five. Keeping his eyes glued to the distant roadway obstruction, he said, “All that distance you covered on the roads from Oregon to Utah, how did you go about avoiding the dead?”

  “I holed up during the day and travelled at night. Simple as that.”

  Daymon grunted.

  “I had the night vision goggles I took off a dead Oregon National Guardsman. Their roadblock near Mount Hood was a mess. The vehicles were all shot to hell. The bodies, too. Ones that hadn’t reanimated and walked away were nearly picked clean by the mountain birds. Hell, Daymon, the guy I took ‘em off didn’t need ‘em anymore.”

  “I’m not judging you on that,” Daymon replied.

  Reining the pickup back to a walking speed, he leaned over the wheel to scan both sides of the road for evidence of an ambush: a light glinting from glass or metal. Fresh tire tracks on the shoulder. Out of place bodies. Pools of spent brass or debris that looked as if it had been purposefully placed on the road. Seeing nothing of the sort, he sped up a little and asked, “What about the Ogden pass? And Huntsville? You put down dozens of rotters there. That’s not the work of a coward.”

  Oliver snugged his cap down over his ears. Then, in a flat monotone, said, “Why couldn’t the snow have stuck around? I can handle those things if they’re not moving. If those hungry, dead eyes aren’t flicking around … searching. In Huntsville I was pretending to be Charlton Heston. You know … the Omega Man … fucking with mannequins. That’s not courage, though. That’s just borderline crazy.”

  Daymon said nothing. He was focusing on the newly fallen tree. It was resting on the right guardrail and stretched shoulder to shoulder across the road. It was nothing like the monster old-growth numbers he had felled to block 39 west of the compound. This alder was about as big around as a man’s thigh, devoid of leaves, and had patches of white bark curling up. It looked diseased, its affected roots likely compromised by the weight of the recent snow and further weakened by the rains that followed.

  Voice cracking, Oliver went on. “I was cleaning up Huntsville for my mom. After finding my dad like I did, guts all ripped out; bite marks and all … I figured she was dead for sure. Had become one of them things.”

  On the console between the two men, the two-way radio began to vibrate.

  Ignoring the buzzing, Daymon threw the truck into Park. “And Duncan? Are you two cool yet?”

  With no hesitation, Oliver spat, “Fuck Duncan. He’ll never replace my dad.”

  Daymon shot Oliver a sidelong glare as Wilson’s voice emanated from the Motorola’s tiny speaker. He scooped up the handset and keyed the Talk button. “Keep your pants on, kid,” he growled. “And yes … I did see the shot-up sign back there.”

  “I was wondering about that,” Wilson said. “I didn’t see any signs of an ambush. You think this tree was cut down on purpose?”

  “Roots are showing,” Daymon answered. “It was ready to go. All it took was that heavy snow and then all that rain softening the soil. Good thing it didn’t fall on the rig Cleo drove over. Would have been a fireball for sure.”

  Following a short burst of squelch, Jamie entered the conversation. “Our six is clear,” she said. “We saw the sign, too. Lev seems to think the holes in the sign are new. No signs of rust, he says.” There was a short pause. In the background the F-650’s engine rumble could still be heard. “Lev wants to know what you want to do with the tree? You going to take it out with the Stihl? Or should we pull forward and use the winch to drag it off the guardrail?”

  “The latter,” Daymon acknowledged. “Come around on my left.” He released the Talk key and turned to Oliver. “Wilson used to be the skittish one around the dead. A little razzing by his sister led to him trying to force the issue on the way here from Colorado. Nearly got him killed. But it went a long way toward loosening him up around the things.”

  Oliver scanned the road on his right. He shifted his gaze to the bushes crowding the road on the left. “I’m not going to lie to you,” he conceded. “I’m scared as shit out here in the open … in broad daylight.”

  “A little fear is necessary. Keeps us sharp,” Daymon said as the F-650 pulled alongside, casting its shadow on the Chevy. “’Frosty’ is what Captain America likes to call the razor’s edge he tries to ride. Heard him describe it as the perfect blending of fear and confidence.”

  “But he’s a trained soldier,” Oliver noted. “I’m nothing of the sort.”

  “That trained soldier had to get used to dealing with the living dead just like me and Wilson and the others. Hell, your mom did it. Means you can, too. So just watch. Sponge it up. And learn from your mistakes.”

  The sounds of multiple doors opening and closing entered the cab through Oliver’s partially rolled-down window. He wiped away a stray tear with the back of his hand.

  “Baby steps, my man. Baby steps,” Daymon said, shouldering open his door. “Be right back. Lock up if you feel the need.” Leaving the truck idling, he closed the door and hustled to join Wilson and Jamie, who were already stretching the winch toward the far shoulder where the tree’s top had come to rest.

  Chapter 6

  After attac
hing the F-650’s winch to the fallen snag, Daymon moved out of the way and stood with Lev, Oliver, and the Kids while Jamie reversed the big truck. There was a puff of gray exhaust that hung low to the road as horsepower and torque combined to get the sixty-foot length of timber moving off of the dented guardrails.

  The Ford crouched down on its suspension and the tires chirped as Jamie mashed the pedal.

  Finally a ripple went through the timber and the staccato crack of limbs shearing off filled the air. The old equal and opposite reaction came into play and the tree tore free from the rail and rolled a few feet toward the assembled group.

  One last toe stab to the pedal by Jamie jerked the cable taut and brought the tree parallel with the guard rail on the river side of 39.

  As soon as the tree had stopped moving, its bare branches done quivering, Dregan’s courier, Cleo, pulled the 4Runner next to the F-650, flashed a mostly toothless grin at Jamie, then motored off down 39 alone.

  Seeing this, Daymon merely shrugged and sent Oliver, Wilson, and Taryn off to help Jamie untangle the cable. Once the trio were out of earshot, he turned to Lev and told him all he had just learned about their new friend, Oliver, and how he planned to bring the newest member of the Eden group up to speed.

  When Daymon was done saying his piece, Lev shook his head then looked away and watched Taryn help guide the winch cable back into its bumper-mounted housing. Wilson was policing the shattered branches from the road. Meanwhile, Oliver was leaning against the bowed-in guardrail, watching the others work.

  Daymon craned his head to get Lev’s attention. “What?” he said, palms up, exasperation evident by the tone of his voice. “Look at him. You don’t think he needs a fire lit under him?”

  Lev fixed his gaze on Daymon. “Not what I was thinking,” he said. “It’s all coming together. The other day I was wondering why a guy who humped hundreds of miles of countryside to get home didn’t look like he’d just ridden a boat across the River Styx. What you just told me also explains the night vision goggles and all of the spare batteries he was carrying. But what you’ve got planned … it’s kind of harsh, don’t you think?”

  Tucking a dread behind his ear, Daymon said, “Not more so than the alternative. Raven had the last of the antiserum and it’s gone now. No telling if Captain America …”

  “Remember your new leaf?” Lev interrupted.

  “Er, yeah,” Daymon said rather sheepishly. “As I was saying, there’s no telling if Cade is going to return from his next excursion with more of those vials. So … I think an evaluation by fire of our new weakest link isn’t too harsh. Especially if it ends up saving lives down the road.”

  Lev hung his head. “Wilson didn’t get that kind of treatment. And he’s finally turned the corner.”

  “That transformation has been months in the making.”

  “Yeah,” Lev agreed.

  The Raptor suddenly came to life, its 6.2-liter engine rumbling low and steady.

  “Well?” Daymon pressed. “It’s only every one of our lives at stake. And, as always”—he paused and took a deep breath—“I’ll be the bad guy.”

  “I guess,” Lev conceded. “Hell of a baptism, though.”

  “I won’t let it get out of hand. Think of it as a blanket party. That’s what you Army guys call that thing you do to initiate the noob privates … right?”

  Lev smiled conspiratorially. “Only in the movies.” Spinning a finger in the air, he addressed the others. “We’re oscar mike. Thirty seconds. Mount ‘em up.”

  A minute later they were in fact oscar mike—military speak meaning on the move—and the trees lining 39 were scrolling by, their gnarled reflections creating a hypnotic effect as they juddered bottom-to-top across the three vehicles’ bug-spattered windshields.

  ***

  Twenty minutes after clearing the tree from the road, the three pickups were parked side-by-side, Chevy on the left, Raptor in the middle, and the big Ford F-650 taking up the exact spot on the right shoulder where the overturned school bus used to reside. All three vehicles were facing the asphalt confluence where 39 met 16, the state route connecting Bear River in the south with Laketown and scenic Bear Lake near the Utah/Idaho border some thirty miles north by west.

  Daymon and Lev had purposefully maneuvered their trucks close enough to the Raptor so that the entire group could chat without broadcasting their intentions to the world on an open radio channel.

  Daymon spoke up first. “Seeing as how our friends down south haven’t seen hide nor hair of the horde since yesterday, I figure in order to cover as much ground as possible before dark, splitting up is our best bet.”

  Taryn and Wilson both nodded their approval.

  Speaking from a much higher perch, Lev craned his head to make eye contact with the others. “As long as the horde is still down south and we keep the radios on … I don’t see why not.”

  “Me and Oliver will skirt Woodruff on the east side, come around counterclockwise, south to north. Lev, you and Jamie start at the rehab place and work towards the center of town.”

  “We’ll drive to the north edge of Woodruff and start moving back this direction,” Taryn said. “Meet you all in the middle near the post office.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Lev agreed.

  Hand tightening on his AR-15’s grip, Oliver looked to Daymon. “You sure of this?”

  Before Daymon had a chance to answer, the long range handheld CB belched static. A tick later Heidi was asking for Daymon.

  “Daymon here. What’s up?”

  Voice wavering, Oliver said, “The horde is coming. I knew it.”

  Daymon looked sidelong at Oliver and adjusted the volume up a notch.

  “Change of plans here at the compound,” Heidi said. “Chances are you’ll soon be hearing or seeing military aircraft in the vicinity.”

  Glaring at Oliver, his index finger now held vertical to his lips, Daymon said, “Cade’s ride is inbound already?”

  “You got it,” she replied. “Could be that quiet black helicopter or the noisy as hell tilt-rotor thingy. Cade didn’t say either way. I didn’t ask. He just looked at his big soldier watch and said he’s being picked up in the coming hours … whatever that means.”

  “Shit,” Daymon exclaimed. “I was hoping to get something to him before he left.” He slapped a palm on the steering wheel, causing Oliver to visibly tense. He glanced to his right and saw Taryn in the driver’s seat in the Raptor looking a question his way.

  Daymon glanced at his wrist. Realizing he wasn’t wearing a watch, he flicked his eyes to the clock on the instrument cluster. Then, after a quick mental calculation, he thumbed the Talk key. “Have someone meet me at the gate in ninety minutes.”

  Trepidation creeping into her tone, Heidi said, “Will do.”

  Daymon’s gaze landed on the trip computer where he saw the outside temperature indicated in small digital numbers. Fifty-eight degrees … effin pineapple express. Shaking his head, he dialed the volume down and handed the CB to Oliver.

  “What do you want me to do with this?”

  Nodding toward the Raptor, Daymon said, “Have the Kids pass it through to Lev.”

  Taryn took the radio from Oliver without saying a word.

  The CB continued its journey through the Raptor and Wilson deposited it in Lev’s outstretched hand. Then, bowing his head to see past Taryn, Wilson whistled to get Daymon’s attention. “What’s this extra special item on your shopping list?” he asked.

  Jaw taking on a granite set, Daymon locked eyes with Wilson. “An amends,” he said through clenched teeth. Truth be told, acting on Duncan’s advice, swallowing his pride and admitting he was wrong did feel a bit liberating. However, the only child in him was kicking and screaming all the way.

  In the F-650, Lev passed the CB to Jamie then turned back to address Wilson. “You think I ought to convince him we should stick together? We can always come back out this way tomorrow.”

  Wilson shook his head vehemently side-
to-side causing the boonie hat strap under his chin to swing like a pendulum. “I want no part of this one. Both Cade and Duncan agreed to Daymon calling the shots on this little excursion.”

  Lev smiled. Thumbing the Motorola two-way he said, “We’re good to go.” To his left the black Chevy made a slow sweeping turn onto 16. Taryn moved out next, quickly bringing the race-tuned Raptor up to speed. Lev pulled out last, taking up rear guard on the three-vehicle train.

  As agreed upon ahead of time, Daymon took the first right at Back In The Saddle Rehab and drove east on Center Street. Soon, the narrow two-lane entered a shallow depression and the upper story and wood-shingled roof of the rehab place disappeared from view. After a long steady climb out of the dip, the farmhouses near to town gave way to rolling countryside rife with green fields of chest-high alfalfa.

  Standing out smack dab in the middle of one of the fields were a pair of prefab homes. A pair of long gravel drives roughly a quarter of a mile apart led up to identical cement parking pads fronting each house.

  “Cade’s already been through those two,” Daymon said, slowing and pointing out the white Xs scrawled on the doors. “He never mentioned marking them up like that, though.”

  Shrugging off the practice that seemed to make sense in a natural disaster, but not so much in the zombie apocalypse, Daymon pinned the accelerator to make up for lost time.

  Soon the two-lane was flanked by trees and the red-brown foothills of the Bear mountains were filling up the windshield.

  “Five minutes gone,” Oliver noted. “Where are we going?”

  “Don’t worry,” Daymon replied. “I’ve been here before. Whether or not someone else has since is the make or break.”

  Oliver fidgeted with the strap on his custom rifle. “When were you there last?”

  Letting up on the pedal and steering around a doddering zombie, Daymon said, “Two or three weeks ago.”

  “By yourself?”

  “Yep.”