District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  “One mike,” called Haynes.

  Now occupying the seat beside the stowed minigun to Cade’s left, the SOAR crew chief named Skipper—obviously having let his personal grooming go since the L.A. mission—stroked his graying billy-goat beard with one gloved hand. He seemed completely at ease, letting his helmeted head loll against the bulkhead as the craft launched off the tarmac behind a growing turbine growl and accompanied by the unusual harmonic vibration that supplanted a normal helo’s hurricane-like rotor noise.

  Cade heard Ari speaking with the tower as the Ghost Hawk continued to climb and spin to port. Outside his window, FOB Bastion’s flight line slowly rotated from sight and he was afforded a bird’s eye view of Mack Mesa Municipal’s old parking lot and transient receiving area. The lot was full of military vehicles wearing both desert tan and the much darker woodland camouflage schemes. Rising up atop the building’s officer’s quarters was a two-story plywood and plate-glass addition bristling with half a dozen antennas. On the far corner of the cobbled-together control tower, a bright orange wind sock hung listless in the still, high-desert air.

  Beyond the sprawling parking lot ringed by prefab trailers and a liberal amount of fencing and what looked like ten-foot-wide by ten-deep trenches, soldiers in hazmat suits were going about the grim task of removing the previous night’s accumulation of twice-dead corpses.

  “She’s always under siege,” Cross offered, peering out his starboard window. “Has been since the day the first Chinooks landed.”

  Shifting his attention to Lopez and Cross, and noticing their newish-looking uniforms, Cade quipped, “You two clean up nicely.”

  Lopez rested his chin on the butt of his rifle. “Should have seen us an hour ago.”

  Deadpan, Cross added, “Yep. It’s amazing what a couple of passes over the old ball sack with a warm washcloth will do for a fella.”

  Cade felt the helo nose down and pick up speed. Compared to the bus-like ride of the Stealth Chinook, the Ghost Hawk was a Ferrari—super nimble and peppy. Maybe the weeks spent on the ground had skewed his perception of speed—especially when it had come to the bigger helicopter’s performance. At any rate, it appeared they would arrive at Colorado Springs sooner as a direct result of switching birds. Shifting his gaze from the tilting horizon over Cross’s shoulder, he locked eyes with Lopez and asked, “What have you been up to?”

  “Me and Cross were in your neck of the woods,” Lopez said. “Poking around the Wasatch Front.”

  Cade perked up. “Did you recon Salt Lake?”

  Lopez nodded. “Started out in Wendover, Nevada. It straddles the border with Utah. Buried some listening devices there on Interstate 80. The Zs can’t help but follow it straight across the salt flats to Salt Lake, which is teeming with them.”

  “Did you two come across PLA scout soldiers in Nevada?”

  Cross nodded. “We were expecting contact.”

  “Praying for it,” added Lopez, eyes narrowing.

  “President Clay sent out a pre-recorded pep talk. Everyone at Bastion watched it. Your name came up, Wyatt. Something about finding foreign soldiers on our soil … as far east as Ogden.”

  “Huntsville,” Cade said. He glanced at Skipper, who didn’t seem interested in the conversation. If he was, it didn’t show. The crew chief’s eyes were hidden behind a smoked visor, and his helmeted head, facing the port-side hip window, was constantly panning in small little increments, presumably between the ground and horizon. “I came across two PLA special operations scouts.”

  Cross asked, “Were they riding dirt bikes?”

  Cade nodded. He looked at Lopez, then, settling his gaze back on Cross, said, “They were dismounts. Already dead and turned. They were wearing—”

  Suddenly the Ghost Hawk slowed considerably and, as if it wasn’t already skimming the weeds, halved the distance to the ground and began a tight counterclockwise orbit.

  “Bastion, Jedi One-One. We’ve got a large group of Zs moving south on State Route 65,” Ari said, his voice carrying over the shipwide comms.

  After Bastion came back with a terse “Copy that,” Haynes relayed the estimated size of the horde followed by their current GPS coordinates, direction of travel, and estimated speed.

  Lopez fixed his gaze on Cade. “Per Beeson’s orders, more than a thousand roamers on the open range warrants a Screamer drop.”

  “Working one up,” Ari answered back.

  Regarding Cross with a look of confusion, Cade mouthed, “Screamer?”

  After stabbing two splayed fingers at his own eyes, Cross pointed to Skipper and mouthed, “Watch this.”

  Chapter 21

  For reasons unknown—a gut feeling, perhaps—Daymon put one toe on the lowest stair leading up to the faded white Catholic church then did an about-face, saying, “Let’s clear the caretaker’s house first.”

  Without a word of protest, the others followed him up the sidewalk to the next stack of cement stairs.

  As if privy to some kind of insider information, Max had already continued on past the church steps and was nose deep into the bushes at the base of the stairs leading up to the Old-Colonial-style house rising up from an elevated parcel of land barely a hundred feet east of the church.

  Stopping beside Max, Daymon looked up at the house, first focusing his attention on the windowed gables up high, then walking his gaze over the ground-level windows which were all completely shrouded by dark-colored drapes.

  “Front door or back?” Lev asked, drawing his semiautomatic.

  Eyeing the overgrown front porch and stairs, Oliver said, “I just spent dang near three months bushwhacking the Pacific Crest Trail. I vote we try the back door first.”

  “I miss this kind of work,” Daymon replied, pulling Kindness from its sheath and telling the others to stand back.

  More than three months removed from human intervention and growing crazily over the slender handrail, the cat-pee-smelling bushes looked to be a formidable opponent to reaching the front door. However, after a few minutes of hard work, Daymon had cut a three-foot-wide path up the first rise of stairs and was bulling through the grabbing vines overtaking the whitewashed front porch.

  “Not quite the same as cutting a firebreak,” he called down from the porch landing. “But it sure brought back some memories.” He moved his blade slowly left to right, cutting the air in front of the front door. Brought it close to his face and inspected the cobwebs and bug husks clinging to it. A big fat spider—Brown Recluse he guessed—darted along the blade’s spine and dropped off to the weathered floorboards, scurrying between his boots before he could stomp it flat.

  “Spider,” Taryn squawked, flapping her tatted arms and doing a little dance on the stairs.

  “Dead spider,” Jamie declared, bringing her combat boot down hard and leaving behind a messy arachnid pancake.

  Calling up from where he was standing on the first run of debris-strewn stairs, Wilson said, “All those webs didn’t just accumulate over two days’ time. Brings back bad memories of the inside of Ray and Helen’s old barn.”

  Daymon wiped the webs off on his pants and sheathed the blade. “And what does it tell us, boys and girls?”

  Approaching the door, Lev said, “It tells me that nobody’s come or gone through this particular entry for quite some time.”

  Wilson said, “And that means the place probably isn’t booby-trapped.”

  “Bang on it anyway,” Taryn said, eyes narrowing. “Real hard. And be careful when you open it—”

  “I won’t make the same mistake you did,” Daymon interrupted. “What’s that for you now, Taryn? Two botched entries this week?”

  Taryn smirked and thrust her left arm in front of him, fist closed. Then, under the watchful gaze of all present, she moved her right fist in a slow clockwise circle next to the left. And moving even slower than her hand was working the imaginary crank, her middle finger extended until it was standing at attention and delivering Daymon a nonverbal, albeit very clear me
ssage.

  Daymon stuck his tongue out at Taryn then turned to join Lev at the door.

  Like the church, the paint on the squat two-story house was weathered and scaling off, even on the walls semi-protected from the elements by the porch roof. The door was windowless and appeared to have been hewn from a single slab of oak. A lattice made of brass covered a small peek-a-boo door inset at eye level. A sheen of dust pocked by raindrop strikes covered the horizontal porch rails and door.

  Daymon paused for a beat, raised his hand, and looked to Lev for approval.

  As if saying, Better you than me, Lev stepped back and nodded.

  So, doing Taryn’s bidding, Daymon delivered three sharp, rapid-fire blows dead center on the door with his closed fist.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  He listened hard. Heard nothing but shallow breathing behind him.

  “Again,” Taryn insisted.

  “Says the girl who just flipped off the entry person,” Daymon said, repeating the process.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Nothing.

  Growling low, hairs on his back raised, Max sidled up onto the porch.

  “Stay frosty,” Daymon warned, just before rearing back and delivering a bone-jarring front kick to the spot on the door just inches below the tarnished brass knob.

  Max yelped and there was a sharp crack of wood as the jamb failed and the door rocketed inward on its hinges. A half-beat later there was a dull thud and puff of fine white powder as the knob punched a hole into the lathe and plaster foyer wall.

  ***

  Forty feet from where the breaking and entering was about to begin, the door leading to the back stoop was clicking shut.

  Breathing hard, Iris crouched down on the top step and fumbled around the door jamb, feeling for the filament-like fishing line Ratchet had left dangling there. Hearing the rapid-fire knocking coming from inside the house, she wrapped the leader up in her hand, then, cautiously, so as to not disturb Ratchet’s surprise, held the line loosely and turned a one-eighty on the short stack of stairs until she was facing the door.

  The second volley of knocks came just as she was wrapping the leader line around the eyehook screwed knee-high into the hinge-side doorjamb.

  Finished with her task, she leaped off the steps and sprinted straight to the rickety picket fence, leaving a trail of trampled grass in her wake. After making sure none of the Purged were lying in wait for her, she scrambled over the fence and went to ground beside a natural barrier of brambles that extended north to a low bluff a dozen yards beyond the picket fence.

  Just as Iris was beginning to camouflage her large frame with the pre-positioned pile of soggy, month’s old grass clippings, the looters breached the front door. Though muffled by interior walls and separated by a long hallway and at least thirty feet of additional open ground, the sound of cracking wood was unmistakable in the infinite quiet of the new world.

  ***

  As a result of Newton’s Third Law, Daymon had involuntarily backpedaled three feet from the threshold even before the door had completed half of its inward swing. By the time the brass knob was making its perfect round hole in the interior wall, he had regained his balance and was conducting a quick visual inventory of the foyer and rooms beyond. Seeing there were no rotters with carved-out voice boxes waiting to pounce, he stepped over the threshold, halting the door on its return swing with his left forearm. Pistol drawn, he peeled off to his right, muzzle moving in unison with his gaze, and quickly called back, telling the others the living room was clear.

  Berettas drawn, Lev and Jamie entered the house on Daymon’s heels. Lev swung to the left to clear the dining room, while Jamie continued straight down the narrow hall dividing the house in two.

  “Left is clear,” Lev called as he threw open the drapes, fully illuminating the butler’s pantry and kitchen beyond it.

  “Found the stairs,” Jamie called from the rear of the house. “And I smell cigarette smoke.” She cast a quick glance out the window over the sink. “Nobody out back.” She tested the knob. “Back door’s locked, too.”

  After waving Oliver, Taryn, and Wilson inside, Daymon stared Max in the eye, telling him to sit.

  Putting a finger vertical to his lips, Daymon closed the door softly behind them, forcing it shut despite the damaged jamb. “Follow,” he said over his shoulder and struck out down the hall to reunite with Jamie and Lev.

  After a twenty-foot-run down the middle of the house, the hall spilled him into the kitchen. It was done in a classic farmhouse style, appointed with white cupboards, all yawning open and fully cleaned out. The fridge was pushed up against an inner wall. Its doors were closed. Still, the seal had failed and a stinking sludge had accumulated around its base. No telling what was inside the thing, Daymon thought, throwing a shiver.

  Coming to a large butcher-block-topped island, Daymon halted and spun a circle. For a house this size, the kitchen was massive, encompassing nearly a quarter of the downstairs footprint.

  Having just emerged from the adjoining butler’s pantry, Lev padded to the door leading to the backyard and peered out the window.

  Daymon swung his gaze right and spied Jamie standing at the base of a short rise of stairs, gun drawn and holding a finger to her lips.

  Getting the hint, Wilson crossed the kitchen diagonally and joined Lev by the back door.

  Oliver and Taryn stood rooted in the kitchen doorway, the former, back turned and peering down the hall at the compromised front door.

  “Hear anything?” Daymon whispered.

  Jamie shook her head. Leveling her pistol, she scaled the half-dozen steps and paused on the landing where the entire run made a ninety-degree turn to the right.

  Daymon whistled softly to get Jamie’s attention. “Wait for me,” he whispered. Looking back at the others, he motioned Taryn over.

  “You want me to go upstairs, too?” Taryn whispered.

  Daymon nodded and stepped aside to let her pass. “Wilson, you watch the back door,” he said, still whispering. “Oliver, anyone comes a knockin’, dead or alive, shoot first and ask questions later.”

  Oliver and Wilson both nodded in agreement.

  Daymon called Lev over with a nod and started off to his right toward the stairwell. Before scaling the stairs, just to be safe, he went to the door underneath the stairs and tried the handle, finding it unlocked. Figuring it for a small powder room, he yanked the door open and found only a threadbare coat on a hanger and a pair of galoshes arranged side-by-side on the floor. Propped in the back corner was an oversized golf umbrella and a golf club which, based on its short shaft and mostly open face, he figured was probably a 9 iron.

  Feeling sheepish, Daymon closed the closet door and mounted the stairs.

  With Jamie in the lead and Lev bringing up the rear, the four Eden survivors made their way to the second floor, stepping only on the sides of each tread to keep the squeaking of loose boards to a minimum.

  At the second landing where the stairs twisted to the right again, Jamie halted to point out pea-sized drops of blood. She swiped at one with her toe and visibly stiffened at the sight of the crimson arc left behind. “Still wet,” she mouthed to Daymon before mounting the final run of stairs.

  Mirroring the main floor, a long hall split the upstairs in half. Two doorways on each side led to bedrooms, presumably. The smell of smoke here was much stronger than it had been in the kitchen.

  Communicating with hand gestures and nods, the group moved on down the hall, Taryn and Daymon taking the two doors on the left, while Lev and Jamie approached the doors on the right.

  Taryn poked her head into the nearest room and found only a dust-covered wood floor and four bare walls. The door on the small closet to her left hung open, the high shelf and hanger bar both bare. Sunlight splashed the walls, and just outside the east-facing window was a mature oak tree, its bare branches nearly touching the house.

  The second door Daymon opened was to a bathroom instead of a coat closet. Afte
r a cursory glance revealed a clawfoot tub, pedestal sink and toilet, the latter bone dry and sporting a rust-orange waterline, he turned and looked down the hall to where the others had assembled.

  Jamie shook her head, causing her carbine to swing on its sling. “Three empty rooms,” she announced, acting as spokesperson for the others.

  Nodding agreeably, Lev said, “We crapped out. Nothing of use here. Time to move on.”

  “The blood, though,” Jamie said, pointing at the floor. “It ends right here.”

  “And the smoke,” Taryn said, her nose crinkling. “Someone was here and we spooked them.”

  “I agree,” Daymon said, his gaze suddenly walking up the wall and settling on the ceiling above their heads where he saw cut marks. They were maybe an eighth of an inch thick and ran two feet across on the ends and four on the sides paralleling the walls. A rubber T-shaped handle was nestled into a four-inch-wide cutout on the end nearest the stairs. He pointed to the find, then put a finger to his lips. “Let’s go,” he said, voice booming. “Nothing here.” He turned and clomped on down the hall alone and then made a lot more noise going down the stairs by himself.

  In the kitchen, Daymon quietly told Wilson about their find and told him to keep doing what he was doing.

  Moving to the front of the house, Daymon found Oliver gripping his carbine tight and standing tall with his back to the bashed-in door. On the shorter man’s face was a look the former BLM firefighter knew all too well. Oliver Gladson was scared shitless and it showed.

  “What is it?”

  Oliver drew in a deep breath. “Max was growling on the porch.”

  “And?”

  “I looked out the window.”

  “And?”

  “That pair of rotters down by the intersection—”

  “Yes,” Daymon interrupted. “What about them?”

  “They’re at the bottom of the stairs now,” Oliver stammered.

  “Don’t worry. It’ll be the second coming of you know who before they reach the porch. If they do reach the porch. Relax.”