District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  “A glorious day, indeed,” he said to no one in particular as the marines on shore worked their way north through a campground filled with the tattered remnants of colorful tents and what he estimated to be several dozen jiangshi. Moving from shore, bayonets fixed, the men worked methodically. Step. Thrust. Clear. This went on for a couple of minutes and when all of the jiangshi in the immediate vicinity were put down, other soldiers moved in and dragged their leaking bodies from the beachhead to clear the way for the troop transports and armored vehicles.

  Always nearby, Corporal Meng said, “If only the Party’s ruling class hadn’t commandeered our Harbin.”

  “The ruling class commandeered all of the South Sea Fleet’s helicopters to save themselves and their families,” Qi replied, grimly. “Why would Lanzhou go unplucked?”

  “No matter,” Meng said confidently. “This is a glorious day for China and truly a great moment in history.”

  “And history favors the bold,” replied Admiral Qi in a measured tone.

  Chapter 45

  Save for the small clusters of lights representing newly established government redoubts on the outskirts of Springfield, Indianapolis, and Cincinnati, the vast expanse of Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio the Ghost Hawk had overflown was an impenetrable sea of black. The random structure fires and burning multi-vehicle pile-ups so commonplace during the outbreak’s onset were nonexistent. Headlights of vehicles fleeing the dead no longer illuminated the rural highways and byways. Aside from the flashing infrared lights on the aircraft engaged in the first refueling, Cade’s constant companions for the duration had been the three Ds: Doctor Silence perched at his window near his minigun. The millions of dead he knew owned the land below the helicopter. And darkness of the magnitude he’d only experienced at night high up in the mountains of Afghanistan.

  With the veil of night finally beginning to peel away from east to west, Ari’s voice boomed over the shipboard comms. “Rise and shine. Up and at ‘em. Drop your cocks and grab your socks,” he bellowed ahead of a wicked laugh.

  Cade imagined being a younger sibling to Ari. Oh what a hellish existence that would have been. Maybe even to the point of rivaling Air Force boot camp. He grinned at the thought and looked across the aisle where Cross and Griff both came to in unison. Barely a second removed from the impromptu wakeup, both men were back to sitting upright in their seats.

  Grumbling about being so rudely awakened by such low brow humor, Griff leaned against his safety harness and flashed the smartass SOAR pilot a sour look.

  Having been awake since the last aerial refuel near the Illinois border, Cade had watched as the Air Force HC-130J Combat King II tanker—its flashing running lights illuminating the immediate night sky like a fireworks display—overtook the Jedi flight and settled off their port side at his two o’ clock. After dousing the visible lights, the King’s starboard refueling hose complete with red and white checkered drogue chute and gently strobing IR light extended and the matte-black Stealth Chinooks drank from the boom first. After Jedi One-Two received her fill of JP-8, the dual-rotor ship fell back to make way for One-Three. Once the second helo’s tanks were full, the SOAR pilot backed his bird away so the Ghost Hawk could take its turn at the well.

  “Jedi Lead moving into position,” Ari had said, his voice loud and clear in Cade’s headset.

  “Copy, Lead,” the tanker pilot had replied. “Make it quick, our bird still needs to drink. If we don’t … you’ll be making hot refuels in Indian country all the way back to Springs.”

  “Native American country,” Ari quipped as he bled off a little airspeed to match the Hercules.

  “Figure of speech,” the Herc pilot had shot back blandly.

  That last exchange had stuck in Cade’s head. During the last hot refuel he’d been involved in, a man had died. Nothing fluke about his death: Hicks had been gang-tackled. There were just too many Zs on the apron to keep track of. And with a fuel bowser nearby, using the Ghost Hawk’s miniguns to save the operator hadn’t been an option.

  Now, four hours removed from the last aerial refueling and with another one looming, Cade was still troubled by the memories of all the good men lost to an act perpetrated by the very nation currently invading America.

  Thankfully, bringing his train of thought back to the mission at hand, through his headset, Cade heard Ari begin coordinating the current refuel order between the two new tanker pilots and Jedi One-Two and One-Three. Trying to tune out the jargon-filled exchange, he looked through his window to the dead world below. Illuminated by the first light of day, but still partially shrouded in ground-hugging pockets of fog, the fuzzy outlines of fields and barns and silos made small by distance began to pass diagonally underneath the Ghost Hawk. As Ari side-slipped the helo to port, Cade glanced up through the barely perceptible rotor blur and caught sight of the flashing lights and angular silhouette of the KC-135 Stratotanker shadowing the entire operation from a seemingly static position high above their current altitude. Though the multi-engine jet appeared small in relation to the nearby and much slower KC-130 the flight had just rendezvoused with, he knew the jumbo-jet-sized Stratotanker keeping pace carried the fuel the Hercules would need after transferring all it had to the entire Jedi Flight so as to ensure that the “multiple hot refueling stops at abandoned Z-choked airfields” the Herc pilot had spoken of would not occur.

  ***

  Ten minutes had elapsed between the time Ari moved into position and gently coupled with the boom trailing the larger gray turboprop and their delicate dance was completed. After Ari’s customary promise to buy the tanker crew beers when they next met, the Hercules serviced the other two helos and drifted up and away to a refueling rendezvous of its own.

  Based on the parting chatter between Ari and the flight crew of the Stratotanker that had been stalking them, Cade drew the conclusion that it was one of the last airworthy birds of the 435th Aerial Refueling Wing operating out of Grissom Air Reserve Base in North Central Indiana, and once it had finished topping off the KC-130 it would have just enough fuel to return to base.

  ***

  Ninety minutes after the latest aerial refueling in a string of many, the Ghost Hawk was crossing over from West Virginia into Maryland. Suddenly the shoulder straps bit into Cade’s shoulder as the helicopter banked hard to starboard and entered an ever-steepening nose-down dive that saw the distance between Jedi One-One and the ground quickly decrease by half. Grateful he wasn’t hearing the electronic peal of a missile lock-on warning or feeling the craft judder as flares rocketed from the airframe-mounted dispensers, he calmly peered out his window and instantly saw the distant sun, big and white and watery, nudging its way through faraway high-strata. As planned, the two black Stealth Chinooks full of Rangers kept thundering east toward their preplanned loiter location to wait as a quick reaction force to be utilized should Cade’s team find themselves trapped and in need of immediate extraction.

  Once the Chinooks were out of sight, Cade cast his gaze groundward and saw the same pearlescent hue of the sun reflected back at him in the Potomac River.

  Delineating West Virginia and Maryland, the south-flowing river snaked its way diagonally west to east, twisting and turning within view of Arlington National Cemetery, the White House, and nearby National Mall, Ronald Reagan National Airport, and finally the Pentagon, which was blackened by soot and ringed by dozens of Humvees and various other pieces of military hardware: Abrams tanks, multi-wheeled Strykers and boxy Bradley fighting vehicles. Arranged with their barrels aiming outward, the static armor bespoke of a frantic last stand that had obviously been won by the living dead.

  “What a shitshow,” commented Ari, slowing the helo and initiating a gentle turn to the east.

  Just thinking aloud, Cade said, “Amazing that it took an event such as this to pry the politicians from their hold on office.”

  “Cold dead hands,” quipped Skipper. “And I can smell ‘em from here.”

  And Cade could, too. “Thanks for
the reminder,” he said, peering down on the Potomac River that, from five hundred feet in the air, looked much different than he had remembered it. Maybe it was because the most memorable image of the District of Columbia imprinted in his mind had come from a grainy newscast he’d seen nearly thirty years prior. Then the Potomac had been frozen over and an airliner-sized hole had been punched into its center. A helicopter had hovered over the shattered ice, its rotor wash creating an ever-widening concentric circle in the frigid chop. The only thing Cade remembered seeing floating atop the river’s black surface at the time, other than the inches-thick shards of broken ice, had been a female survivor and the one Good Samaritan who had jumped to her aid from the nearby seawall. Something had clicked inside of him, lending to his desire to help others one day.

  Now, perhaps lending to his change in perception, thousands upon thousands of bloated bodies, many of them reanimated and frothing the ice-free water with their arms and legs, had become tangled in the remnants of the 14th Street Bridge jutting from the river off the helo’s port side.

  Taking in the macabre sight out his window, Axe said, “Isn’t that the fuck all,” his British accent making it impossible for Cade to discern whether it had been question or statement. “Looks just like satellite footage of the River Thames.”

  “Why didn’t you go home?” Cade asked, still staring at the sights scrolling by below the Ghost Hawk.

  “Wifey was in Japan at the time. On business.” Axe shook his head. “She made it to the embassy but never made it to the waiting birds that were supposed to take all of the British nationals home.”

  Cade saw that they were about to overfly the National Mall. “Did she get caught up in the Z outbreaks?” he asked.

  Axe said nothing for a long while.

  Silently contemplating things known only to them, both Cross and Griff were staring out their respective windows when a call came in indicating that the two Stealth Chinooks had just been painted by a ground-based radar of some sort.

  Immediately there was a noticeable increase in the turbine whine and the nimble craft seemed to buck as Ari nosed her toward the deck. The ground rushed up for a couple of seconds before the Ghost Hawk leveled off close to the treetops and course-corrected north by east until the Washington Monument loomed large through the cockpit glass.

  Upthrust like a middle finger to the living, the granite obelisk stood tall and majestic and as bone white as Cade had ever remembered it being. Thousands of undead marched the National Park, trampling the lawn into a dark brown morass. Of the fifty American flags once flying at its base, only a dozen were left, colorful as the day they were made and snapping wildly atop crazily canted flagpoles. Many more Zs, way too many to count, were mired in the murky water of the reflecting pool. Suddenly becoming aware of the low-flying aircraft, pale faces turned to the sky and tracked the near silent helo right to left as it passed very close to the squat, Pantheon-like Lincoln memorial.

  “Haynes, anything?” Ari barked rapid-fire.

  “Clear so far.”

  Ari said, “Skipper, keep your eyes peeled for missile launches.”

  Skipper said nothing.

  Cade added eyes to the vigil off to port and assumed the other operators were doing the same to starboard.

  “Taking her down to NAP flight,” Ari warned. “We won’t be shot out of the sky on my watch.”

  With a recently consumed MRI and pint of water bouncing around in his system, Cade drew some deep breaths in an attempt to avoid earning a Puker patch.

  Chapter 46

  The banging on the door was loud and constant. Brook wiped a strand of drool from the corner of her mouth and squinted against the harsh bar of light infiltrating the curtains. Muttering at the caller to relax, she threw the blanket off her legs and plucked the Glock from the built-in nightstand beside the bed.

  “Who’s there?”

  The banging stopped and there was a brief silence before a woman’s voice filtered through the door.

  “Oliver is missing.”

  “Glenda?” Brook called. She pulled the Glock’s slide back an inch. As expected—the new gold standard in the apocalypse—a 9mm round was already chambered.

  The knob turned, but the door didn’t budge. “Open up.”

  Glock leveled at the thin metal door, Brook repeated her question.

  The knob rattled again. It spun left and then back to the right. “It’s Glenda … unlock the door.”

  “Give me a minute.” Brook holstered the Glock and strapped the belt around her waist. She slipped her feet into her boots and laced them up. Lastly, she donned a medium-weight parka and stuck a hand in its left pocket. Feeling the raised plastic teeth on the pair of thin flex cuffs inside, she removed her empty hand from the pocket and zipped it shut.

  Outside the RV, the majority of the survivors were standing under the metal awning. Glenda was at the bottom of the steps, her face screwed up with worry. Duncan was by her side. With the Saiga held loosely in hand, white Stetson pulled low on his brow and tan Carhartt jacket zipped to the neck, at first glance he resembled one of those stagecoach drivers from a century and a half ago.

  “What’s the matter?” Brook asked.

  “Oliver has up and run off,” Duncan answered, eyes downcast.

  “Wasn’t my fault,” Daymon said, showing both palms.

  “I beg to differ,” Wilson said.

  “We were all a little hard on him yesterday,” Lev added.

  While Daymon knew he wasn’t the only one in on the trial-by-rotter Oliver had endured, he held his tongue on that matter. Instead, wisely, lest he say something else he’d likely regret, he stalked off toward his truck.

  Duncan turned his body and tracked Daymon with his eyes. “Where are you going?”

  “To my truck.”

  “He’s probably taking a walk in the woods,” said Lev.

  Daymon shook his head. “I’ve got a good idea where he’s going and how he’s getting there,” he said, and stalked off toward his Chevy pickup.

  “Wherever he’s going, he’s not driving,” Taryn called. “Because I checked inside every vehicle in the motor pool, and they’re all accounted for. And I know for a fact he’s not asleep in Dregan’s eighteen-wheeler or the helicopter. I checked those, too. So where could he have gone to at night and on foot?” She said the last part looking at the others and in a voice that inferred that even saying it out loud was justification to be committed to the loony bin.

  Brook was watching the round robin conversation with rapt attention when it suddenly dawned on her Raven and Sasha hadn’t yet emerged from their sleepover. Probably for the best, she thought. No way they’re joining an outside-the-wire search party anyway.

  Tran and Foley exited the woods nearby, both shaking their heads. While Tran continued to the RV and chose an unclaimed camp chair, Foley stopped in his tracks and blurted, “I want to be part of the search party.”

  A V8 motor rumbled to life down by the motor pool. A tick later Daymon pulled up close to the assembled survivors and brought his Chevy to a lurching halt. The window powered down. As if he’d been reading the older man’s mind, Daymon looked to Foley. “Get in,” he said. “Your longing for action and adventure is about to be realized.” He looked to Lev next. “You and Jamie coming?”

  “You two can take the beast,” Brook told Jamie.

  Taryn approached the Chevy. “You really think he just up and left on foot?”

  “No way,” Daymon answered, the truck shimmying as Foley opened the door and slid across the seat. “He took Sasha’s bike. And he’s not out on some early morning joy ride, either.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Duncan asked.

  Daymon leaned out his window and whispered, “Because his gear is gone. All of it. The makeshift body armor, night vision goggles, and that custom rifle of his, too.”

  “I heard that,” Glenda said, rising from her chair.

  Duncan looked up at the dark clouds forming overhead. His jaw
took a firm set. “So where do you think he went?”

  “I figure we’ll find Sasha’s bike at the roadblock,” Daymon said. “He’ll have crossed to the other side and taken one of the vehicles we left there.”

  “Why?” Glenda asked. “What did you do to him?”

  “Called him on his bullshit,” Daymon said. “Your son froze up as soon as we left the wire. Can’t be having that.” He went on, detailing everything that had happened the day before between him and Oliver, leaving out only the trip to the house.

  “So he only traveled the PCT at night,” Lev said. “Makes sense.”

  “I say we quit jawin’ and find the kid,” Duncan drawled.

  “I’ll get the truck,” Taryn said, leaving her gear with Wilson.

  Clutching Duncan’s arm tight, Glenda said, “I already lost him once. I can’t bear to go back to the not knowing.”

  Duncan fished the keys to the Dodge from a pocket. “I’m going. The more time we waste, the colder the trail will get.”

  “I want to go,” Glenda demanded.

  “Under no circumstances,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “I don’t want to risk losing you, too.” He gave her a peck on the cheek, motioned for Tran to follow, then strode off toward the motor pool.

  An engine fired to life on the other side of the RV. As the throaty rumble of the F-650’s V-10 filled the clearing, the radio in Brook’s hand came alive with static. “The road’s clear,” Heidi said, her update obviously meant for those going outside the wire.

  “Roadblock first,” Daymon called, as Lev nosed the F-650 close to his bumper. Singling out Wilson, he added, “Be sure to bring along extra ammunition and food. Because if the bike isn’t there, we’ll be heading north into unknown territory.”