District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  “I didn’t,” Cade conceded. “Daymon did. Consider this Saiga 12 an olive branch. He said he’ll explain it to you later.” He reached back into the bag and it lost most of its shape when he withdrew a trio of black, boxy magazines and a pair of bulky, circular-shaped items. He patted the former, which were substantially larger than an M4 magazine and had a more pronounced forward curve to them. “These are ten-round 12-gauge mags.” He pointed to the others. “And those two drum magazines hold twenty shells apiece of the same.”

  “This beast is semi-automatic?”

  Cade nodded. “Pull the trigger until she’s empty.”

  Duncan whistled. “Makes the old Street Sweeper shotgun look like a baby Derringer.”

  “That dog will bark,” Cade agreed. He zipped up the bag and rose, grimacing as his left ankle took most of his weight.

  Using the truck’s muddy rear tire for support, Duncan also rose. “Time for you to go, mi amigo.”

  Cade nodded even as he was waving Brook and Raven over from the shadow of Daymon’s Winnebago where they had been standing.

  Glenda and Heidi remained where they were, sitting side-by-side on the RV’s folding stairs.

  “Couldn’t sit this one out,” Cade said, glancing at the helo just as it was settling on its landing gear dead center on the dirt airstrip. Even with a hundred-plus-yards separation, the rotor wash made the branches overhead dance and clack together. “Not after what I saw on the video Nash sent.”

  Duncan nodded, one hand holding his Stetson on his head. “Never thought I’d see the day foreign troops set boots on our shores.”

  Cade was about to respond, but was rocked sideways as first Raven hit his legs like a mini linebacker, then Brook wrapped him up in a one-armed hug and planted goodbye kisses on his cheek. He returned the affection, whispering in Brook’s ear then hefting Raven off her feet to give her one of his trademark bear hugs. Blinking the mist from his eyes, he set his daughter down and plucked his rucksack from the ground near the Humvee where he’d left it earlier. He shrugged the ruck on and checked that the spare mags were in place in the pouches on his MOLLE vest. Lastly, he scooped up his M4 and the nearly empty Panther’s bag and stood to attention, fighting valiantly to hold back the tears forming in his eyes.

  After nodding toward the bagged Hershey’s bars, he shifted his gaze to Raven and Brook, blinked fast a couple of times and mouthed, “Love you.” Before the emotion of the moment got the better of him, he quickly turned toward the helo whose rear ramp was just beginning to motor down.

  In passing, Duncan looked the man clad in all black up and down. He said, “Be careful out there, Jim Phelps,” clearly a reference to the special agent from Mission Impossible. Then, loud enough to carry over the thrum of the distant chopper, the grizzled Vietnam veteran hollered, “Peter Graves has nothing on you, Wyatt,” and began humming the unmistakable theme song.

  “I must be getting old timers,” Cade said, turning back and withdrawing the aviator shades from a pocket. “These are from your buddy, too.”

  Smiling, Duncan swapped the old glasses with the new. He spun a circle, declaring them damn near perfect once he was facing Cade again.

  “They’re you, Old Man,” Cade declared and was on the move again.

  Though there was no need to duck his head under the matte-black chopper’s madly spinning rear rotor blades, Cade put a hand on his helmet and bent low at the waist anyway. Old habits really do die hard.

  A compact fireplug of a man clad in MultiCam fatigues soiled with dirt and who-knows-what-else greeted Cade at the ramp. Taking the sports bag from Cade’s gloved hand, the crew chief, whose nametape read Spielman, directed him to a seat just inside the canted ramp.

  Cade squinted and stumbled as a boot caught on the foreign surface underfoot. Eyes still adjusting to the abrupt switch from the flat, unforgiving light outside to the chopper’s dim interior, he took the seat Spielman had pointed to, quickly adjusted his rifle on his chest, and slipped the safety harness over his shoulders and hips. Clicking the black buckle together over his sternum, he let his eyes roam the helo’s long, narrow cabin.

  There were two lumps partially blocking the aisle a few feet to his left. There were also several seated forms, still just silhouettes thanks to his compromised vision. He counted six seated shapes to his left, and four more he assumed were looking back at him from across the aisle. As the hydraulic piston to his right went to work drawing the ramp closed, his vision slowly began to improve.

  Letting his helmet rest on the bulkhead behind him, Cade opened and closed his eyes rapidly half a dozen times. Finished blinking the dust from his vision, he cast his gaze around the cabin and found the inside of the craft belied everything he had expected. Whereas the outside was very similar to the Ghost Hawk in appearance and attitude—a mashup of angles and soft curves all wrapped by what had to be radar-absorbing materials—the troop compartment of this bird had none of the same accoutrements. There were no flip-down flat-panel monitors that he could see. If there was a way to communicate with the aircrew, he could see no jacks to plug into. It appeared that the technology bomb that had seemingly exploded and coated the insides of the Jedi Ride he was used to being ferried around in had missed this bird entirely.

  The sliver of light atop the rear door faded to black and the hydraulic whine ceased. As the engines spooled up with a different kind of whine—a satisfying sound that meant they would soon be underway—once again Cade felt the pressure worm its way into his ear canals and take up station deep in his chest. The sensation coincided with his stomach going south as the helo launched under what seemed like full power. Strangely, however, the rotor thwop didn’t reach anything close to the crescendo created by this craft’s nearly fifty-year-old predecessor. Nor was the same vibration present. Transmitted through the bulkhead pressing his back, he could feel the turbines and mechanicals at work, but smooth as silk in comparison to the CH-47 “Shithook” as Duncan fondly called the venerable workhorse of Army Aviation.

  With the rear ramp closed, Cade got a whiff of the air inside the hulking bus-sized helo. It stank of stale sweat, gunpowder, and JP-8 jet fuel, all ensconced in the ever-present sickly-sweet pong of death. Once the crew chief made his way fore and took a seat beside a flush squared-off window that was within arm’s reach of the internally stowed minigun, Cade scrutinized the now fully-defined forms across the aisle from him. They were, to a man, stripped down to just their Crye Precision MultiCam combat shirts and like-colored camouflage pants. Sweat stains marked the wicking fabric where their vests and rucksacks had been riding over their Crye tops. Their MOLLE load-bearing gear—pouches empty of magazines—sat in an unruly pile on the cabin floor near the ramp. He let his eyes pause on the patches affixed by hook-and-loop tape to their dirt- and blood-soiled uniforms and discovered he was sitting amongst a chalk of Rangers from the Army’s storied 75th Regiment which he proudly hailed from. Hooah, he thought, pride welling in his chest.

  The feeling quickly faded and his heart grew heavy when his eyes fell on the two lumps to his left and realized they were draped with flags. Likely fallen fellow Rangers.

  A gloved hand had worked its way out from under one of the flags. It vibrated subtly against the floor as if the soldier it was attached to was still alive. But he wasn’t. Of that Cade was certain. For where his head tented the flag up there was a deep, almost blackish red stain that had spread into a Rorschach-like pattern with edges much like the chopper’s—rounded where gravity had dragged it down the corpse’s cheeks, and jagged where runners had soaked across the upturned profile. In places on the dead soldier’s chest, the “stars and bars” were stained crimson.

  No body bags.

  That didn’t speak well of the outcome of whatever battle they were returning from.

  Once the chopper attained level flight and had picked up speed, the SOAR crew chief named Spielman worked his way aft from the hip gun with a flight helmet in hand and a grim look parked on his bearded face.
<
br />   The helmet was thrust in Cade’s face.

  No umbrage was taken. Cade was aware his black fatigues bore no rank, unit insignia or any of the other markings to denote who he was and where he’d been. Even if the crew chief or any of the other men had met him before or knew of him, the nearly full beard obscuring his face negated the possibility they would know who he was right here and now. And that was just fine in Cade Grayson’s book.

  “Thank you,” he mouthed, taking the helmet and quickly peeling off his low-profile tactical model.

  Staff Sergeant Spielman said nothing. He stood gripping a strap near his head and gently swaying along with the rest of the customers aboard the Night Stalker bird.

  Cade snugged the helmet on. It was a perfect fit. Shrugging and staring up at Spielman, he mouthed, “How does this plug in?”

  “It’s Bluetooth-enabled,” Spielman mouthed back, no emotion conveyed at all. His eyes were hidden behind the lowered visor. “It’ll come on-line in a second or two.”

  The first words Cade had understood by reading the staff sergeant’s lips. The last sentence he heard loud and clear through the headset built into the helmet. He was adjusting the boom mic near his mouth when he heard other voices: the first belonging to the aircrew flying the chopper. Then a tick later the response to their query for the weather conditions in Colorado Springs came through not crisp and clean, but with a series of clicks and chirps before and after suggesting it was an encrypted transmission delivered via an overhead communications satellite.

  Hearing the all-business SITREP from one of the pilots up front and then the prompt reply from the 50th Space Wing in Schriever told Cade he was not only able to hear the crew chief, but he was also plugged into the shipwide coms and would be privy to everything going on behind the scenes. Which was a good thing seeing as how he was the black sheep—figuratively and literally—aboard the chopper. Whether the crew chief was aware how the helmet comms were configured was no concern of Cade’s. That he might be treading where he was not supposed to could be debated later if it came to that. So, not wanting to tip his hand and give up the chance to learn more than just what he could see with his own eyes from his window seat in the stealth helo, he fixed his gaze on the visor where he guessed Spielman’s eyes to be and mouthed, “Copy that.”

  Spielman merely grunted and then strode back to his seat beside the retracted minigun.

  The Rangers, most with their eyes closed, some staring off into space, didn’t let on if they had witnessed the exchange with Spielman or not. And as the crew chief stalked around the shrouded bodies, saluting them as he did, Cade put himself in their boots. He imagined that if he had just gone through the same kind of hell these Rangers had, he’d also find little joy in diverting to pick up what—just going on his black uniform and specialized gear—had to be a CIA spook who’d gotten himself in too deep.

  Burying their fallen was atop the to-do list, no doubt. Followed closely by hot chow and some shut eye before the next battle waged against an enemy that was now coming at them from all points of the compass.

  So, with nothing to do on the four-hundred-mile flight but let his senses soak up every bit of available intel, he craned over his shoulder to watch the country awash with the colors of fall flash below the low-flying chopper and listened in on the constant chatter between the pilots up front and Schriever Air Force Base, presumably his first stop on what was going to be a long trip Back East.

  Chapter 13

  Oliver had remained rooted in place for three long minutes before Daymon repeated his ultimatum. This time the words had come out slow and even without a trace of anger.

  The steady tic … tic … tic of the creature’s splintered, blood-soiled nails drumming the glass off his right cheek was sending tremors of fear coursing through Oliver’s body.

  “Sink or swim,” Daymon repeated. Hoss was on his mind now. The anger he’d felt after being trapped in the sweltering farmhouse attic in Hannah, Utah was as well. He could hear the moans of the dead. The scratching of nails digging into once ornate wallpaper and lathe and plaster. The home’s old bones creaking under the weight of all those cold, jostling bodies. “Do it with the knife.”

  Without warning, in one fluid movement, Daymon leaned across the seat, worked the door latch and put all of his weight and upper body strength into one solid lunge that started the big creature on a clumsy arms-flailing backpedal away from Oliver’s window.

  “What the hell?” Oliver rasped, even as his seatbelt was retracting over his shoulder and Daymon’s follow-through forearm shiver was sliding him out the door.

  “Sink or swim.”

  Now on his knees on the roadway, Oliver heard the door suck shut at his back and the pneumatic thunk of the door locks slamming home.

  “You’ll thank me for this later,” came Daymon’s muffled voice through the glass at his back.

  If I survive.

  Having regained its already compromised balance, the long-dead rotter fixed his unblinking eyes on a just-rising Oliver and found another gear in its forward shuffle.

  Bent at the waist, the folding knife held in front of him at an upward angle, Oliver moved to his right and backpedaled to create a little separation and some time to think.

  Daymon rooted silently for Oliver as he and the dead thing did a slow roundabout dance a dozen feet off his right shoulder. Slowly but surely the monster was advancing and Oliver was checking his retreat, no doubt steeling himself for a last stand.

  Hand poised over the horn and ready to give a sharp attention-getting blast should the rotter get the upper hand, Daymon craned to follow the action in the side mirror. He truly wanted the man to survive the encounter. To lay the first brick of the foundation he would need to survive going forward. Hell, even the Kids were rising to the occasion. Why shouldn’t this crack shot have to as well? After all, thought Daymon. As the saying goes: You’re only as strong as your weakest link. And right now that link was being exposed to the crucible necessary to strengthen it to the level of the others.

  The anger he was feeling over Oliver’s reluctance to get his hands dirty was in danger of growing to that of the hatred he felt toward the imbecile of a lawyer who had gotten him and Cade trapped in the attic in Hannah.

  “Come on, Oliver!” Daymon shouted. “Water them already!”

  And he did. The lunge caught both Daymon and the undead man flat-footed—the latter literally as the knife flashed on an upward arc and became buried hilt deep in the thing’s right eye socket, displacing one clouded blue eye and sending the atrophied corpse on a one-way trip to the gray, oil-streaked asphalt.

  In the cab Daymon did two things simultaneously. First he let out the air trapped in his lungs. Then he honked out a little ditty to voice his approval.

  Seven short toots.

  Shave and a haircut … two bits.

  He unlocked Oliver’s door.

  The door opened with a creak and Oliver slid into the seat. Handing the knife back handle first, he said, “Thank you.”

  “You don’t want to stab me with that thing? Give me the Omega? Hell, I’d want to if I was you.”

  Oliver shook his head. A slow side to side wag. “After letting you all think I was some kind of mountain man gun-toting John J. Rambo … I had it coming.”

  “I was ready to save your ass if I had to,” Daymon admitted. “Hand was on the horn. Big ol’ Bubba would have broken his neck to see the cause. You could have gotten away from that lumbering rotter … no problem.”

  Silence in the cab.

  Daymon carefully cleaned his blade on a paper napkin. Tossing the soiled item out the window, he said, “So how’d it feel?”

  “Too real.”

  “How so.”

  “I looked him in the eyes first.”

  Daymon clucked his tongue. “I made that same mistake early on. Did it again recently when I killed a man up in Idaho. Put an arrow in his throat and watched the light leave his eyes as he gargled his own blood.”
/>   Oliver shuddered. “I’m not there yet. Can’t say I ever will be.”

  Daymon locked the doors, selected Drive, and started the truck rolling east past the pair of quarry feeder roads. “Then this won’t be the last time one of us snips your umbilical. Takes your training wheels off and gives you a good downhill shove. Winds up your—”

  “I get your drift,” Oliver said. “I aim to make you all proud. Don’t worry.”

  “I never worry,” Daymon replied, eyes on the two-lane. “I cut the necessary firebreaks. Make sure the fire can’t jump the lines. Same concept that was just on display here.”

  “Like tough love,” Oliver stated, hands reeling in his carbine’s sling.

  Daymon shook his head, making the stunted dreads quiver. “Nope. That was more like the old saying … an ounce of prevention—,” he began.

  Clicking his seatbelt home, Oliver finished, “—is worth a pound of cure.”

  “Bingo,” Daymon said, slowing the truck and taking them left at the 39/16 juncture. “Now that that’s settled, get one of the others on the horn and tell them not to shoot … it’s just us.”

  Saying nothing, Oliver scooped up the Motorola two-way and hailed the others.

  Chapter 14

  Mostly out of respect for the dead, but also because he felt like an interloper sitting in his relatively clean black uniform alongside the battle-weary Rangers, Cade peered out the porthole window, dividing his attention between the direction the watery sun was tracking behind the clouds and the distant buttes scrolling by on the helo’s port side. During the first few minutes of flight a handful of things he had been expecting to happen never came to fruition. For one, after lifting off from the compound’s grass strip the helo remained in low-level flight, gaining altitude only to clear the tallest of trees or hillocks while following the Ogden River nearly due east—not quite nap of the earth maneuvering, but damn close based on Cade’s experience. The constant altitude and speed corrections surely weren’t good for fuel consumption, but to keep the helicopter hidden from any hostile radar that may be painting the skies along the flight path, the tactics were golden.