District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

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District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 7

by Shawn Chesser


  Heads nodded all around as Lev retrieved the CB from the F-650 and placed the call. Then, once he had finished filling Cade in on their findings, he used the two-way to hail Daymon and did the same. Finished, Lev followed Jamie and the Kids to their waiting vehicles. Finally, less than ten minutes after the Kids arrived in the Raptor, the pair of engines roared to life, and the two-truck convoy wheeled from the gravel lot at a slow roll heading west toward Main Street, the F-650 in the lead.

  ***

  The watcher took a final drag on the unfiltered cigarette and grimaced at the stale aftertaste it left in her mouth. Blowing the pungent smoke out through her nose, she blindly stubbed the butt out on the windowsill and shifted in her chair to get the blood flowing back into her numb backside. The binoculars pressed to her eyes were trained on the group of four standing beside a pair of vehicles parked on the gravel lot three blocks to the west.

  The redheaded guy in the camouflage hat and the fresh-faced girl with the ponytail who had arrived alone minutes earlier were doing most of the talking. Judging by the group’s fairly relaxed body language as they stood in a ragged circle conversing amongst themselves, the girl with the ponytail who had initially entered the auto body shop alone had inexplicably avoided becoming lunch for the purged. The less-than-urgent response her friends in the big black truck had displayed while responding to the scene, and that nobody down there was breaking out a first aid kit, all but confirmed to the watcher that she wouldn’t be collecting anything as a result.

  Part of her was happy the girl had survived her brush with death. But the fleeting emotion wasn’t fueled by any kind of empathy she harbored for the brunette. It was selfish and self-centered and born from the knowledge that the long wait for the victim or victims to finalize their purge and eventually stagger off in search of prey was not going to happen. But more so than that, the fact that the brunette and her redhead friend were still pure and not scavenging claimed territory alone as the watcher had initially reported, spared her momentarily from going through their personal effects—a necessary task that always dredged up painful memories from the time before the purged had risen to usurp the unbelievers.

  Shuddering at the prospect of eventually having to again relive that old-life moment when all she had held dear had been violently stripped from her, the watcher panned the binoculars left of the group and scrutinized their vehicles. Sure they were probably full of supplies, their tanks holding precious fuel, but the mere thought of siphoning them instantly turned her stomach. Smacking her lips, she screwed up her face as a Pavlovian response reminded her how awful it would taste in her mouth. Though the cigarettes left behind after the purge were barely palatable, and what she was required to do sexually to Mom and others in order to acquire them even worse, she lit up another and inhaled deeply.

  Down the street the small group of uncleansed —the term Mom had bestowed upon those not like them who had survived the purge—entered their vehicles two-by-two, closed their doors in unison, and motored off the way they had come.

  Two-by-two, thought the watcher, smiling as the figure of speech brought back yesterday’s lesson of Noah and Mom’s mention of the space ark being constructed for the Enlightened.

  Still smiling dumbly and in her mind already light years from a slowly dying Earth, she set the binoculars aside, scooped up the CB radio, and called in to report what she had just witnessed.

  After listening to the soothing, slightly robotic voice on the other end instruct her exactly what to do next, the watcher lowered the volume on the handheld CB and then wiggled her knife from the sill where she had stabbed it when the white truck had so rudely interrupted her work.

  She set the radio down on the wood floor, leaving a garnet trace of her own blood on the light ash surface. Then, picking up where she had left off, she finished the final flourish on the descending serif of the ornate capital R that she’d already spent the better part of an hour carving into the painted windowsill.

  She drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly while moving her head left-to-right along the length of the dirty windowsill.

  Even before the fine wood shavings had floated all the way to the floor to be absorbed into the blood spattered around her crossed legs, she was attacking the next letter in the chosen one’s name with the quiet vigor and precision of a Buddhist monk laboring over a sand mandala.

  Chapter 11

  “Drive it like I stole it” was still cycling through Oliver’s mind when Daymon came upon a straightaway, sped up exponentially, and inexplicably took one hand off the wheel in order to answer the warbling two-way radio.

  “Daymon,” he answered, matter-of-factly, as if the fallen leaves from the skeletal trees weren’t blazing by in spurts of red and orange and brown.

  The speaker hissed white noise for a second then a voice said, “Lev here. We have an issue.”

  Daymon was about to ask “What kind of issue?” but before he could get a word in Lev was spilling all about the zombie booby trap and the feelings of being watched he’d experienced outside the fix-it place.

  Preparing to brake for a corner rushing at them, Daymon said, “You sure?” and passed the radio off to a near hyperventilating Oliver.

  “Near a hundred percent sure,” Lev answered. “By the way … Cade was none too happy we split up.”

  Silence on the other end.

  Surprised that Daymon wasn’t pissed because of the disclosure, Lev said, “We’ll be waiting at the post office. What’s your ETA?”

  Daymon took his eyes from the road for a second. “Tell him we’ll be turning onto 16 in twenty-five minutes … give or take.”

  Hands trembling, Oliver keyed Talk, passed on the message, and signed off.

  Once again matting the pedal on the next to last straightaway before the curving arc of 39 fronting the compound feeder, Daymon looked sidelong at his passenger and said, “Hail the compound and ask whoever is watching the road for a SITREP.”

  Oliver drew a deep cleansing breath, raised Seth on the radio and, without fanfare, relayed the message.

  Another burst of static emanated from the tiny speaker. With a trace of levity in the delivery, Seth said, “You’re clear at the road. A special welcoming party will be waiting to receive your secret delivery.”

  Still in the dark about what the oversized gym bag on the floor contained, Oliver handed the radio back to the crazy driver.

  ***

  Listening in on the conversation through the ear bud stuck in his right ear, Cade shouldered his M4 and aimed the barrel east down the road at the distant corner. Through the EOTech 3X magnifier, he saw the Chevy round the bend and slow a bit. Tucking the collapsible stock tighter to his shoulder, drawing a deep breath, and exhaling slowly brought the front windshield and cab into sharp focus.

  Willing himself back into mission mode, Cade catalogued in his mind what he was seeing through the optics. Two bodies. One passenger: Caucasian male. Driver: African American male. Confidence is high these are the principals. He thumbed the switch on the foregrip and flashed the oncoming truck three times with the high-lumen weapon-mounted tactical light.

  Seeing the signal, Daymon hailed Seth. “Who’s waiting at the gate?”

  “Cade,” Seth replied at once.

  “Oh shit,” Daymon replied. “This could get weird.”

  One of Cade’s eyebrows hitched up as he lowered the M4’s muzzle toward the ground. Wondering what the Eden compound’s mercurial former firefighter had up his sleeve, he stepped from behind the blind and raised a gloved hand in greeting.

  “I see him,” came Daymon’s voice over the open channel.

  The Chevy came to a stop a yard from Cade’s knees, lurched a bit as the transmission was disengaged, and then the body rolled a bit on the chassis when Daymon stepped to the road. In the dreadlocked man’s hand was the black gym bag with the words WEST HIGH PANTHERS - SALT LAKE CITY, UTAH silkscreened in red on its sides.

  Cade hefted the bag. “Heavy.” He set it on
the road and tugged the zipper. Peering at the contents, he said, “You came all this way to give me these before I left?”

  “Hell, you’ve been known to wear armor fashioned from magazines. Those are no different. Besides, I might need to borrow your muscle and your truck before winter really gets a-poppin’.”

  Cade zippered the bag and shot Daymon a look that implored the man to elaborate.

  “I found a place. Not far from the crossroads. Real secluded and secure.”

  “Aboveground, I assume.”

  Daymon smiled. “Oh, is it ever.”

  “What exactly do you need me and the truck for? You can’t have much that needs moving.”

  “I was pulling your leg.” Daymon glanced at the Chevy. The window was down now and Oliver was waving to get his attention.

  Daymon regarded Cade and added, “In the old world. Before all this dead people walking around bullshit … didn’t you effin hate it when people asked you to help ‘em move?”

  “Not if it was a friend who was asking.”

  “What am I to you?”

  “I would help you move, Daymon”

  “I’m going to get all misty-eyed here,” Daymon said. “Hope I don’t break down and bawl.”

  “Better not,” Cade said, motioning in the direction of the black domes. “Foley fixed the audio on those things. Seth probably hears everything we’re saying.”

  In his ear Cade heard Seth chuckle and confirm that he could hear what was being said, but wasn’t really retaining any of it.

  Though the volume on the radio in Daymon’s pocket was dialed down to 5, he still heard Seth’s admission. Flipping the black dome the bird, he said, “Be safe out there, Cade. Wherever there is this time.” He nodded and winked conspiratorially. “Can you give me a hint?”

  Cade smiled. “If I did I’d have to kill you.”

  “Can you at least bring me back a half-shirt or a shot glass or something?”

  “Copy that,” Cade said offering a fist bump. “I have to get back. My ride’s due here any minute.”

  “And I gotta see what OG wants.”

  Cade shouldered the bulging bag. Looking Daymon in the eye, he asked, “Is Oliver as advertised out there?”

  “He’s about average,” Daymon lied. “Still got a lot to learn, though.”

  “Don’t we all,” Cade replied.

  “Oh, I almost forgot.” Daymon’s lips curled into a half-smile. He fished the pair of aviator-style glasses from an inside pocket where they’d been since he plucked them off the dresser inside Casa De Daymon twenty-five minutes ago. “Along with the other stuff, give these to Old Man.”

  Cade took them in hand, inspected the thickness of the lenses, and noted the fine bi-focal lines. Shifting his gaze to Daymon, he said, “These just might do the trick. I have to admit I’ll miss the Elton John look.”

  “The others are waiting at the post office,” Oliver called from the truck.

  Daymon looked at his watch. “He’s right. We gotta go.”

  “Be careful,” Cade repeated. “You all better stick together. Strength in numbers … and all that. Whoever is responsible for that trap means business.”

  “You know me,” Daymon replied, as he turned to the truck. “I’m always frosty.”

  Cade patted the bag. “Thanks again for these.”

  “My pleasure,” said Daymon.

  Cade slung his rifle, then retreated behind the camouflage gate and was lost from view.

  ***

  Back inside the truck, Daymon clicked on his seatbelt and squared up to Oliver. Stared at him for a long five-count.

  Oliver shifted nervously in his seat. Finally he asked, “What?”

  “You’re watering your balls right now. First deadhead we come upon you’re getting out and doing it up close and personal. Ask me why.”

  “What?”

  “No, why,” Daymon hissed.

  “Why?”

  Daymon rolled the Chevy into the first leg of a three-point turn. Once he was finished reversing across both lanes and had the truck pointing east, he said, “Because I just lied for you and I don’t know why.”

  Oliver was speechless and still gawking at Daymon when his head was whipped into the seatback from the brisk and sudden acceleration.

  ***

  Fifteen minutes after leaving the compound feeder road behind, Oliver was staring off into the forest and spotted a slow-moving matte-black object. He watched it quickly grow larger as it moved south to north, skimming a copse of alders far off in the distance before being blocked from view by the pickup’s B-pillar. By the time he craned around and peered out the back window to reacquire the mysterious craft, there was nothing in the sky save for scattered clouds pierced with stray bars of golden sunlight.

  Facing back forward, Oliver said, “You see that?”

  Eyes never leaving the road, Daymon said, “What … Bigfoot?”

  Oliver frowned. “No, dickhead.” Gesturing in the direction of the truck’s right rear wheel, he said, “I saw something big and black flying real low over those treetops.”

  “Like a stealth fighter jet or something?” Daymon replied, chuckling at the visual Oliver’s words conjured.

  “No. There was more to it than just fuselage. There was lots of movement going on.”

  “Are you just trying to distract me from finding you a rotter to dispatch?”

  “No. I saw what I saw.”

  Just then two things happened. First, still locked on Channel 10-1, the radio crackled to life and Cade was alerting Seth that his ride to Springs was inbound to the clearing. Then, as the Chevy rounded a sweeping left-hander, Daymon said, “Speak of the Devil,” and standing there in the center of 39 adjacent to the quarry entrance was a male walker. It looked fresh. Full of face and carrying about a buck eighty, the thing looked like a lost hunter. Only Daymon knew better. Hunters had rifles. This guy did not. And hunters wore either safety orange or some type of camo. This guy was stripped down to just his skivvies and had about a hundred red welts crisscrossing his pallid chest and extremities.

  “There you go, Oliver. That one is tailor-made for you. Set up just like they instruct folks how to overcome their fear of public speaking.”

  “How’s that?”

  “They say to imagine the audience sitting there in their undies. Calms the nerves, they say.” He applied more brake and the Chevy’s nose dipped slightly. “There you go. Nothing to be nervous about.”

  Oliver said nothing.

  Daymon pulled the truck diagonal to the centerline.

  Down the embankment off the Chevy’s right flank, the Ogden River rushing by sounded like morning freeway traffic.

  Hearing the engine noise rising over the nearby river, the zombie turned and showed interest in the truck.

  “Take Kindness,” Daymon said. “She hasn’t eaten much today. You feed her good and I’ll feel better about fibbing to Cade about you.” He threw the automatic locks off and fixed his gaze on Oliver.

  “If I don’t?”

  Daymon closed his eyes. “Get out.”

  “If I don’t?” repeated Oliver, the machete wavering in his hand.

  Opening his eyes, Daymon said, “Then you’re dead to me. Literally. Get out … now.”

  Chapter 12

  Cade was nosing the borrowed Dodge pickup in next to the Eden group’s lone Humvee when he felt a sudden change in the air pressure. His ears popped first. Then, as if he’d been transplanted a second heart, a subtle throbbing began in his chest.

  Standing directly in front of his white Dodge Ram, Duncan bent over and pretended to inspect the truck’s grill and bumper.

  “There’s no new scratches on your baby,” Cade said, stepping out of the truck, arms full with the M4 and oversized bag. “A little help here?”

  Still feigning the auto-rental-return inspection routine as he looped around to the driver’s side, Duncan stopped mid-stride and shifted his gaze skyward as a colossal shadow darkened the clearing.
>
  Cade watched his friend walk right into the Dodge’s wing mirror, bending it back on its breakaway mount.

  Spewing a couple of expletives and rubbing his bicep, Duncan took his eyes from the helicopter orbiting high overhead and looked a question at Cade.

  After a brief glance at the helo, Cade determined that the pilot of the exotic-looking craft was conducting a thorough recon of the landing zone before committing to a final approach.

  “That’s my ride,” he said nonchalantly as he tossed the bag on the ground lengthwise in front of his boots. Crouching next to the bag, he drew the zipper back and pulled out several retail packages of Halloween-sized candy bars. “For the girls,” he growled at Duncan, who was already reaching for them. Next, he removed six boxes of shotgun shells, placing them on the crushed grass.

  “I’ve got plenty of those,” Duncan said. “But thanks all the same. The candy, though …”

  Cade shot a quick glance skyward. Saw the unknown to him twin-rotor helicopter still orbiting high up. His first thought when the bird had come on station was that he was in for a long, slow ride to Springs aboard a lumbering Chinook MH-47. Now he wasn’t so sure as the black silhouette began a final descent.

  “Raven and Sasha get the candy. You, my friend, may have shells,” Cade said, shifting his gaze back to Duncan, who had crouched next to him. “But you don’t have one of these.” He pulled a black shotgun from the bag. It was fitted with an EOTech holographic sight, folding stock, and had a vertical front grip attached below the squared-off forestock.

  Duncan’s eyes went wide behind his Elton John-esque glasses. “You shouldn’t have,” he gushed, already fingering the black stub of a shotgun. He examined the barrel. “Flash suppressor. Nice.” Turned it over in his hands, noting the AK-47-style selector arm. Stamped just forward of the selector was a white S for Safe and a red F denoting Fire. And jutting from the same side in front of the embossed letters was the weapon’s charging handle—a hook-shaped metal lever an inch or so long. All in all, it wasn’t much longer than the shotgun he usually carried. And—bells and whistles notwithstanding—didn’t look any more complicated at first glance.

 

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