District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  “You hear that, Mike?”

  Sergeant Cassidy leaned closer to the lightly tinted glass and shook his head. “Negative, Colonel.” His eyes locked on the large contingent of dead battering the fences near the main gate. “And I’m damn grateful that I can’t. Although I’ve always wondered how the hell something that isn’t breathing manages to do that, I don’t think I’ll ever learn to get used to hearing that damn noise those dead fuckers make.”

  “I’m not talking about the rotters,” said the colonel. “Listen. We have company coming in from the west.”

  “Should we try hailing them?”

  “Don’t bother. I’ve been expecting them.”

  “Who?”

  Frederick looked through the binoculars. “Just watch.”

  As if on cue, a low-flying aircraft materialized from the ground clutter. It was moving real slow, droning on just above the trees before dropping closer to the deck and skimming the fence bordering the runway. Lumbering would be a good description, thought the colonel, just as a white parachute materialized in the slipstream below the gray turboprop.

  In the next beat the parachute jerked the first of the two promised ammo-laden pallets violently off the canted ramp behind the airplane. Pallet number two was still making its slow roll down the ramp when the first pallet hit the runway dead center a hundred feet beyond the yellow-chevron-painted overrun area. A hazy shotgun-like blast of accumulated tire rubber blossomed around the four-by-four wooden cube and the chute went limp as it skittered crazily along the runway, slowly bleeding off forward momentum the farther it traveled.

  The second pallet didn’t fare as well. After coming into contact with the runway, it clipped one of the marker lights, instantly altering its trajectory and causing the drag chute lines to wrap around it. Barely a dozen yards from where it first hit the runway after leaving the airplane, the cargo pallet careened through the vibrant green infield, along the way kicking up dark clods of soil still bristling with grass.

  “Special delivery from Major Nash,” said the colonel. “She pulled some strings and had the flight diverted from … somewhere.”

  “We just took delivery of an ammo drop destined for another base?”

  The colonel grimaced, but said nothing.

  Wisely, Doyle changed the subject. “Shall I send the PJs out?”

  Colonel Frederick tapped the control tower glass, then pointed in the general direction of the long row of airplane hangars the A-10s had rolled out of earlier. The massive floor-to-ceiling doors were parted about a third of their travel and a desert-tan Humvee bristling with guns was already rolling through with a pair of like-colored pickup trucks close on its bumper.

  “They’ve beat you to it, Sergeant.” The colonel turned, raised the binoculars to his face and tracked the cargo plane as it crossed the east end of the runway, climbing away from the tower while banking gently to port. The fuselage was still wide open out back and a human-sized figure was kneeling near the ramp. The magnified image of the Super Hercules shimmered slightly as it leveled from the short climb and settled on a northerly tack. Not a second later the tiny figure the colonel knew was the loadmaster began tossing Day-Glo orange spheres groundward. After seeing four of the objects fall to earth north of where Bayside Drive wrapped around the end of the base, the cargo plane’s ramp begin its slow climb into the closed position.

  “What were those?” Sergeant Cassidy asked.

  “A distraction,” said the colonel, letting the binoculars hang by their strap on his chest. “One that was promised by Nash and may have just saved what’s left of the 436th and 512th Airlift Wings from having to evacuate this post.”

  Chapter 55

  Duncan lowered the Bushnells and spit a couple of obscenities under his breath.

  Standing on the road apart from the others and squinting in the same general direction, Daymon turned toward Duncan and asked, “What do you see that’s got you so pissed off?”

  “You need prescription glasses now?” Duncan asked, handing the binoculars down. “Take a look for yourself. There.” He pointed. “Near that black hulk blocking the road.”

  Grumbling something about having perfect 20/20 vision, Daymon put the binoculars to his eyes and glassed the landscape to his left, eventually picking up State Route 30 meandering off to the northwest. After scanning the road east to west from where it intersected 16 he saw the reason for Duncan’s verbal outburst. A half-mile west of the 16/30 junction the road was blocked by a large, tightly packed throng of dead. However, these corpses weren’t twice-dead like the ones stacked like cordwood on the road behind the group. These dead bodies bracketed in Daymon’s binoculars were mostly first turns and fully aware of the idling trucks. And in the center of 30, some distance behind the rotters, was the completely burned-out shell of what looked to have been a station wagon.

  “So what’s your concern?” Daymon asked, casting scrutiny on the dirt berm beside the blackened hulk.

  “Yet another great place for an ambush,” Duncan answered. “Hit us while we’re passing the wreck and let those rotters finish the job. I’ve seen it before on the road outside of Boise … early on in this shit.” He shuddered at the memory of the young kids burning alive in the convertible VW. How they’d flailed, bucking and straining against their belts for long seconds as they died. He imagined Rawley’s SKS chattering as the thirty-something musician ended their suffering, performing that final good deed before he was shot dead by the outlaw bikers.

  “What do we do then … just turn around because of a few maybes and what-ifs?” Jamie said, one hand resting on her hip. “If we let the rotters come to us… meet them where the road is at its widest, kill them there and then give the car and road ahead a closer look before moving on.”

  Taryn said, “At least we won’t have to worry about an ambush while we’ve got our hands full culling rotters.”

  Daymon panned the binoculars away from the wreck and walked them the entire length of a feeder road running perpendicular to State Route 30. “Might not be necessary,” he said. “The last part of your plan, at least.”

  “And you base that assumption on what?” asked Lev.

  Squinting and pointing to the field to the right of the advancing zombies, Wilson said, “Does it have something to do with the birds in the field over there?”

  “Very perceptive,” Daymon said. “Those look like turkey buzzards, which are wary birds to begin with. No way they’d still be out there feeding if a force of any size was lying in wait for us anywhere near that charred car.”

  “I second that,” Foley added. “I’ve done a lot of hunting and found that a blind has to be pretty good to fool even the dumbest of birds.”

  Daymon nodded. “And I don’t think there’s a squad of snipers in ghillie suits hiding in the hills, either. Whoever we’re dealing with is far from professional. Pretty much everything I’ve seen so far has been done pretty sloppily.”

  “Not the walkers in the fix-it shop,” Wilson said, his voice wavering. “That was engineered perfectly. Taryn had no idea they were waiting just inside that door.”

  “I’ll give you that,” Daymon conceded. “Doesn’t excuse her for letting her guard down a second time. But I digress. The crucified guy and the verses in the church was a bush league message. The bleeder leaving the matchbook and cigarette smoke hanging in the air at the rectory … both rookie mistakes.”

  “The trap on the back door wasn’t the work of a novice,” Wilson said, throwing another shudder.

  Ignoring the redhead’s valid point, Daymon went on, “Sasha’s bike and Oliver’s gear … all discarded haphazardly with little effort to conceal any of it. None of that makes sense to me.”

  Hand on her tomahawk and staring at the road by her boots, Jamie shook her head subtly. Then, as if something had just dawned on her, she chuckled and lifted her gaze to the group. “Anyone remember Hansel and Gretel?”

  “Yeah,” Daymon said. “But what’s a story about a couple of ki
ds lost in the woods got to do with this?”

  Dying to hear the correlation, Duncan inched his head farther out the Dodge’s open window and looked on in silence.

  “Bread crumbs,” Jamie said. “Someone’s leaving us crumbs to follow.”

  “You may be right, young lady. But let’s deal with our most pressing problem first.” Duncan pointed to Taryn. “I want you to get Cade’s truck and pull it forward.” Then, like a kid at recess picking his team for a game of dodgeball, he pointed to Wilson, Daymon, Lev, and Jamie. “You four will ride in back of the 650.” Meeting Jamie’s icy glare he singled her out. “Sorry to bump you from your ride, darling. We’ll need our best driver at the wheel of that monster. She’s going to shuttle you all into their midst and everyone needs to chalk up six or seven kills each. I figure it’ll be over real quick and then we go check out the car and see what the birds are up to.”

  “Shooting from the back of the truck while it’s moving?” Foley asked. “Aren’t you even a little bit concerned about one of them catching a ricochet or friendly fire?”

  “No gunplay,” Duncan said, shaking his head. “Do them with your blades.”

  Next to Duncan, Tran whispered, “They’re coming.”

  “What will you be doing?” asked Daymon. “Supervising?”

  Nodding to Tran, Duncan said, “Me and him will be shadowing you in the Dodge. We’ll intervene if things go sideways.”

  “All right. If you say so,” Daymon said. “What’s Foley going to be doing while we’re all putting our lives on the line?”

  Duncan got Foley’s attention. Met his gaze and said, “I’m going to need you to stay behind and watch all of our backs.”

  Foley nodded in agreement.

  Duncan cleared his throat and spat a wad of phlegm into a handkerchief. “Things are going to get real noisy on the road. Better keep your radios close and the volume dialed to ten.”

  Wilson turned the volume up on his Motorola and then stepped aside as the F-650 rolled to a stop and the passenger window powered down.

  “I’m not driving,” Taryn said, staring down at Duncan through the open window. “I didn’t earn the right to.”

  “It’s okay,” Jamie insisted.

  Making eye contact, Taryn set the brake and climbed down from the idling rig. “No, it’s not,” she insisted, closing the door before Max could jump from the cab.

  Jamie stepped aside, a confused look on her face.

  Daymon materialized from around the rear bumper, slapping the 650’s rear quarter as if it were a stubborn horse refusing to leave the paddock. “Oh no you don’t, Miss Best Driver in the group,” he chided. “The dead are closing in on us. Get back in that beast.”

  “Give me a moment,” Taryn said.

  Daymon removed his cap and ruffled his dreads. “Don’t look now,” he said. “Taryn’s getting cold feet.”

  Flashing Daymon a one-finger salute, Taryn withdrew her knife from the leather sheath on her hip. Glaring at the dreadlocked man through eyes narrowed to slits, she handed her knife to Wilson hilt first.

  “And what am I to do with this?” he asked, brows furrowing in confusion.

  Shifting her gaze to her man, she reached behind her back with one hand and stretched taut the two-and-a-half-foot length of braided, raven-black hair she’d been growing out for more years than she cared to remember.

  Knife held limply in one hand, Wilson gaped down at her. Mouth hanging open, he shifted his gaze to her long locks. After a few seconds’ pause, he met her brown eyes again.

  “Do it,” she ordered.

  “All of it?”

  “Did I stutter?” she said, her face tight from the tension that pulling on her pony tail was putting on her scalp.

  “Do it,” Daymon urged. “I did mine a while back.”

  Glancing up at Daymon, Taryn asked, “Do you regret it?”

  Slowly at first, Wilson began to saw back and forth.

  Once the sharp blade had passed the halfway mark—the point of no return, by Daymon’s estimation, he said, “Every single day.”

  Taryn brought the bird back, slowly thrusting it in his face, even as his shit-eating grin told her he was pulling her leg.

  “Just effin with you,” he said. “Short hair is pretty liberating. You’ll get used to it.”

  A tear traced Taryn’s cheek as Wilson made the final few cuts. Her eyes were welling with big fat drops when what was left of her hair—essentially a jagged Pixie cut, not much unlike Jamie’s—fanned out around the nape of her neck.

  Nearly in tears himself, figurative tears, because he really enjoyed it when she let her hair down, Wilson handed the length of braided hair to her over her shoulder.

  “I’m not driving,” Taryn said, shooing Jamie towards the driver’s door as she fought to keep the tears at bay. “I need to get back on the horse and ride. Earn all of your trust back.”

  Shrugging, Lev helped Jamie into the Ford and closed the door.

  “Suit yourself,” Duncan called across the road. “Whoever’s getting in back better get to doing it.”

  Wilson helped Taryn into the F-650’s bed then watched Daymon vault the tailgate and take a spot atop the passenger side wheel arch next to Lev. Finally he crawled in and plopped down next to Taryn, mentally exhausted and still in shock from the unexpected turn of events.

  Chapter 56

  Cade powered off his NVGs and flipped them away from his eyes. He swung his M4 behind his back, leaned over Cross’s shoulder and looked at the crystal-clear image splashed on the door probe’s color display. Straight away he learned that Nash had been right about the power being on in the areas that mattered. That he was looking at a full color image of an illuminated stairway meant he owed an apology for doubting her on the matter.

  Cross maneuvered the probe, training the lens on the stairwell wall where shadows, long and lean, seemed to be performing an eerie dance. “We’re going to have company right away,” he said.

  “How many?” Cade asked.

  “Looks like more than one,” Cross offered, twisting the stalk to the right.

  “Stop,” Cade said. “What’s that? Can you hold it steady? Zoom in, maybe?”

  Cross said nothing. He manipulated the controls and the blurry object behind the door suddenly became an overturned chair. It was a metal item from the looks of it and had come to rest lengthwise to the flight of stairs leading up, its four legs pointed directly at the camera lens.

  Cade said, “Think it’s close enough to block the door sweep?”

  “No telling. These things weren’t designed with depth of field in mind.”

  “One way to find out,” Griff said.

  “I’m running point,” Cade reminded. “Cross at two then Griff at three—”

  “And the Brit brings up the rear,” Axe finished.

  Without a word, Cross handed his lock-pick gun over his shoulder.

  “No need for that here,” Cade said, reaching into his breast pocket and producing the pass card Nash had given him after the briefing. There was no writing on either side of the white card. On its back side was a black magnetic strip containing the information making it a master passkey. Holding the card vertically, Cade swiped it downward over the door at waist-level with the magnetic strip facing the spot on the door where a knob or handle should be.

  There was a soft click and a slight give when he pressed inward with his other hand.

  A blast of air a few degrees cooler than that in the hall escaped around the door’s edge. The pong of carrion, though not as pronounced as it had been in the main lobby, was impossible to miss.

  Under his breath, but still picked up by the comms, Axe said, “Smells like arse.”

  “Based on the angle of the shadows,” Cross said, “I’d bet whatever is casting them is at least one flight down.”

  “The chair?” Griff asked.

  “No idea,” Cade answered. “Maybe someone’s failed attempt at barring the door from inside.” He stowed the card
away and swung his M4 back around front. Gripping the carbine at a low ready, he tested the door swing.

  “Quit bandying about with it for bloody sake,” Axe whispered. “We’ve got company. Three zeds on our six. Ten meters out. Shall I engage?”

  “Negative,” Cade said. “They can’t see us yet.”

  Voice rising an octave, Axe pressed, “But I can see them now, mate.”

  As Griff kept watch down the empty hallway running away from them, he wondered to himself who, between Axe and Lopez, would win a bitching contest if Zs were the topic of discussion.

  Ignoring Axelrod, Cade continued pushing the door inward.

  Six inches.

  A soft rasp, perhaps the rustle of fabric on a handrail, filtered through the gap.

  Twelve.

  The stench of death was more evident now.

  At eighteen inches all forward movement ceased when the metal door hit a chair leg and a noise like a struck gong sounded from within. As the resonant tone crashed off the walls, a second noise—a steady tap, tap, tap—could be heard coming from behind the partially opened door. Then, as if the initial aural assault wasn’t confusing enough, the Zs down the main floor hall began to hiss and rasp excitedly.

  At once, from somewhere down the stairs and out of Cade’s sight, an eerie moaning drifted up from the depths. Hairs rising on the back of his neck, he came to two quick conclusions: Whatever was behind the door was the immediate threat and therefore priority number one. Then the fresh turns responsible for the telltale moaning echoing up the stairs had to be searched out and dealt with.

  “NVGs up,” Cade called out over the comms. “Going in. Cross, cover me.”

  Moving in a low crouch, Cade rolled around the door jamb moving nimbly on the balls of his feet. Once he’d negotiated the narrow opening, he backpedaled left a full stride and looked sidelong down the stairs. “Clear left,” he called. “Checking obstruction.”

  Under Cross’s watchful gaze, feet planted a shoulder-width apart on the dimly illuminated cement landing, Cade leveled his carbine at the door, reached out one-handed, and started it swinging closed.