District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  “Now. We. Wait,” answered Duncan, kicking the wipers on and delivering the dirty windshield a five-second spritz of cleaner which allowed him to see Daymon, Lev, and Tran, who were by now distant specks on the state route heading north to Bear Lake.

  Chapter 62

  Though he didn’t let it show as he loped from the PLA soldier’s body toward the settling helo, Cade was seething inside. Rumbling the ground under his boots, the charges had gone off in the DCC as planned, but the real damage had already been done. The PLA Special Forces team that had beat them to the DCC had downloaded the cell tower ping data that could effectively lead them to the doorsteps of every surviving essential member of the United States government from the Joint Chiefs of Staff to the Supreme Court Justices on down to low-level cabinet officials, many of whom were thought to still be holed up in underground bunkers scattered about the country.

  Ignoring Skipper’s offered hand, Cade waited until Griff and Cross boarded and moved out of his way, then tossed his ruck in behind them and climbed aboard. After taking a spot on the starboard side opposite Griff and Cross, he uncoupled the jack from his personal comms set, plugged into the shipwide net, and was taken aback when he heard none of the usual quips or cracks being spouted by Ari or Haynes. Instead there was a heavy silence. No static. No chatter from the other members of the Jedi flight. He was alone with his own thoughts for a few long seconds.

  Having been sprinting across the churned-up sod from the opposite direction as Cade, Axe tossed his ruck through the open door, turned nonchalantly toward the NSA building’s far corner from whence he came, and flipped a pair of upthrust middle fingers at the two dozen Zs staggering in his direction.

  “There’s more of the cunts where those came from,” he said, scooting clear of the closing door.

  “Might be a good idea to get this bird in the air,” said Skipper, panning the minigun’s lethal end toward the Zs.

  In his headset Cade heard a burst of static. A tick later a female airman at Schriever was relaying a set of waypoints to Ari and instantly Cade was grateful it wasn’t Nash herself delivering them. As it stood, the petite major was high on his shit list for shutting down his request that they follow what he felt was still a warm trail. After all, the PLA soldier’s liver still retained some warmth. A quick slice with the Gerber and two bare fingers thrust deeply into the incision had told him so. That she was letting the rest of the enemy team abscond with terabytes of sensitive information was unconscionable.

  Feeling the Ghost Hawk going light on its landing gear, he craned and stole a final look at the PLA soldier, spread-eagled on the muddy ground next to his dirt bike, the damage done by the single coup de grace gunshot to the forehead impossible to miss. As were the hundreds of spent brass shell casings and the hundred or so twice-dead zombies the PLA team fought their way through to get to their rides after their successful foray inside.

  Good thing his Delta team had the Screamers to deploy, Cade thought, seeing the PLA soldier’s body start to spin, an optical illusion created as the helicopter rose off the ground and corkscrewed a quick one-eighty, the rotation stopping only when Jedi One-One was facing opposite the direction it had arrived.

  In the next instant Cade felt the Ghost Hawk nose down and pick up speed.

  Off the starboard-side, her stars and bars whipped into a wild frenzy by the helo’s down blast, Old Glory stood silent witness to Fort Meade’s losing battle against time, the elements, and the infected masses.

  After feeling the slight bump of the landing gear snugging home underfoot, Cade swept his gaze around Jedi One-One’s cabin.

  Strapped into the seat near the still-deployed starboard minigun, Skipper was his usual silent, stoic self, unsmiling under the flight helmet and tinted visor.

  Directly across the helo from Cade, his helmeted head and back pressed firmly against the inner bulkhead, Griff was shooting a wide-eyed what the fuck look his way.

  Knowing the emotion was a direct result of the possibility of the mission’s redemption suddenly being yanked from underneath them, Cade mouthed, “Orders,” and shook his head sympathetically.

  Cross, on the other hand, was already snugged into the seat next to Griff and smiling as he plugged his comms set into the shipwide net. Not a care in the world, thought Cade as he regarded Axe, who was holding his carbine between his knees and looking groundward while the helicopter buzzed overtop the hundreds of light standards bristling from Fort Meade’s acres of parking lots.

  “Who’s winning the match?” Cade asked, his eyes picking up the movement of hundreds of Zs clustered near the east end of the nearest lot.

  “Fucking Manchester, looks like,” Axe replied.

  His mood lightening up just a bit, Cade asked Ari what was so pressing that they couldn’t search for the freshly churned tire tracks he was sure would lead them to the departed PLA motorcycles.

  “Wait one,” Ari said. “Bringing footage up on the flat-panel.”

  While Cade waited for the screen to light up, he shifted his gaze outside and watched the inbound pair of Stealth Chinooks bob subtly as they bled speed and formed up off of Jedi One-One’s starboard-side.

  “Ten mikes out,” Ari said over the shipwide comms. “Feast your eyes on the boob tube, gentlemen. The brrrt show is about to begin.”

  Cade asked, “Is the footage real time?”

  “Taken within the hour,” Ari replied.

  As the static, color image splashed onscreen, Cade settled in for the show. And what a show it was. With the other operators offering up their personal accounts of the venerable A-10 Thunderbolt II and its propensity to make life hell for even the most determined of enemy combatants, all eyes in the cabin were witness to the utter destruction wrought upon an armored column by just three of the stout, heavily armored aircraft. With its twin tail-mounted turbofans, near straight knife-edged wings, and six barreled cannon protruding from under its rounded snout, the Warthog—as it was so affectionately named because of its hard to love lines—more than lived up to its mammalian namesake both in ferocity and hardiness.

  The column was taken completely by surprise, Cade decided as soon as the image started to move. A classic aerial ambush, the type of which the Hog was designed to spring on Soviet armor storming Germany’s Fulda Gap. Nearly two-thirds of the vehicles were on fire in seconds, the ammunition in their magazines cooking off and sending tell-tale puffs of gray smoke into the air.

  “They didn’t have much of a lead over the horde following them,” Cross noted as soldiers poured from one of the troop transports and took up defensive positions flanking it. “No way they could have held off the monsters and engaged the Hogs effectively.” He looked to Cade. “I’m sure it’s an effin feeding frenzy down there by now.”

  “It wasn’t pretty,” Ari commented. “Nash indicated as much.”

  Cade was still watching the monsters converging on the stalled convoy when the A-10s made another gun run from the opposite direction. There was no return fire. No spiraling white contrail indicating MANPADS had been deployed by the PLA troops. No winking flashes from muzzles throwing lead skyward. All of the small arms were being discharged at the approaching Zs.

  It was a turkey shoot, and thankfully the image froze with the surviving vehicles frantically jockeying about on the road in a vain attempt to escape the carnage.

  “Did any vehicles escape?” Cade asked.

  “Negative,” Ari answered.

  “Personnel?”

  “Doubtful,” Ari said. “We will have eyes on in five mikes.”

  With a cold ball forming in his gut, Cade cinched his harness tighter. Expecting to again see the tell-tale puff of smoke and evasive maneuvers to follow, he cast his gaze out his window and waited.

  Pray for the best, prepare for the worst, crossed his mind as the helo banked sharply and dove for the deck.

  Chapter 63

  As a former high school long distance runner, Daymon’s first inclination was to run the entire mile-pl
us to the lake’s edge. However, Lev had quickly shot down that idea. As a former soldier in the United States Army, Lev pointed out that the easiest way to draw attention to one’s self—save for shooting indiscriminately into the air—was to go running headlong into enemy territory.

  So with the rain letting up the three kept to the road and walked at a brisk pace, stopping every now and again to listen for approaching vehicles and sniff the air for the unmistakable stench that always preceded an appearance by the living dead.

  Roughly a quarter of a mile from the lake, the peaked roofs of a number of houses built on shoreline property came into view. Fronted by a picket of bare trees, the colorful two- and three-story homes stood out in stark contrast to the unusually bright blue waters stretching for as far as the eye could see beyond them.

  Stopping to take a pull from a bottle of water, Daymon said, “If I remember correctly, the lake is almost twenty miles long south to north and seven or eight wide at the center.”

  “It straddles the Idaho and Utah border, doesn’t it?” Lev asked.

  Daymon passed the water to Tran, then gestured to their left. “The lake is bisected almost equally. The towns of Fish Haven and Saint Charles are north of the border in Idaho. Garden City is a few miles west of us just south of the border.”

  Lev asked, “What’s on the lake’s east side?”

  “Mostly campgrounds and places to boat and fish,” Daymon said, as he took the water back from Tran and resumed walking the road. “Rendezvous Beach is real close. Took a couple of girls camping there senior year summer. Got lucky with both of them.” He passed the half-empty bottle and cap to Lev.

  Tran slowed his gait and, without saying a word, veered off across the two-lane toward the far shoulder.

  Lev regarded Tran briefly, then shifted his attention to Daymon. “Rendezvous Beach, huh? You got lucky with two girls on the same trip as a senior in high school?”

  Daymon’s dreads bobbed as he shook his head. “I’ve never been that lucky,” he conceded, a smile breaking out. “It was two different camping trips.”

  “Still…” Lev tipped the bottle and drank it dry. He twisted the cap on and stowed the empty in a cargo pocket.

  “Daymon. Lev,” Tran called, motioning urgently for them to cross the road.

  The two men hustled to where he was crouched by the tall grass on the other side of the ditch.

  Flanking Tran on the left, Daymon followed the shorter man’s gaze across the scrub toward the hills rising up on Bear Lake’s west flank. “What?” he whispered.

  “Do you hear that?”

  Lev cocked his head and listened hard.

  Daymon tucked a stray dread behind his ear and stood motionless, his face screwed up in concentration. After a couple of beats he said, “You’re hearing things, Tran.”

  A tick later there was a low rumble of thunder and the westerly breeze dropped off.

  Hearing a steady thunking sound, like something drumming on wood far off in the distance, Lev said, “Yeah, I hear it now. Sounds like a woodpecker.”

  Still staring across the scrub-covered plain, Tran said, “That’s no woodpecker. It’s a machine.”

  “He’s right,” Daymon said. “Someone’s working a log splitter. I could be wrong, but I think the sound is coming from the southwest shore. Maybe even the campground at Rendezvous Beach. With fuel getting harder to come by, I’d bet my left nut whoever is working that splitter is staying nearby. Doesn’t make sense to burn fuel to go out and get fuel. Lugging it back in a truck over a long distance just doesn’t add up.”

  Lev walked to the centerline and looked the road up and down. Returning his gaze north, he said, “I concur. Let’s get to one of those houses by the lake. One, it’ll get us out of the coming rain. Two, we may be able to see what’s making that racket.”

  “What then?” Tran asked, all of this new to him.

  Lev started walking north at a brisk pace. “If we’re able to see Rendezvous Beach and a couple of miles or so of each shore south to north from one of those houses, perfect. We check in with Duncan and squat there for awhile.”

  “If the dirtbags that took Oliver are anywhere near here,” added Daymon. “We should know as soon as we set eyes on some of the doors.”

  Lev looked at Daymon. “The chalk marks?”

  Daymon nodded. “Stands to reason these would be the first houses they stripped of food and supplies.”

  Tran started off jogging, then passed Lev and Daymon at a near sprint. “We run,” he stated forcefully in passing. “They can’t hear anything over that machine.”

  Daymon looked to Lev. “Man has a point.”

  Without another word, Lev and Daymon broke into a slow, steady jog and eventually formed up abreast of Tran.

  ***

  A handful of minutes after Tran had enacted his executive decision, the trio were within spitting distance of the row of lakeside houses and crouched low in the tall grass crowding the base of a roadside sign. ADRIAN VILLE - TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT ON SIGHT was scrawled in black spray-paint over the names of the nearby towns and driving distances to get to them.

  Motioning toward the sign, Daymon said, “Doesn’t get any clearer than that.”

  “Crystal,” said Lev. He parted the grass with his carbine’s barrel and regarded the homes across the two-lane. The nearest on their left was a two-story Tudor-style affair painted in two different shades of gray. Like the other three homes to its right, the driveway was empty. And on all of the houses, shadows crowded the few upstairs windows whose curtains had been left open. Clearly Adrian hadn’t gotten his Ville’s power grid back up and running.

  Of the three houses right of the Tudor, two were nearly identical Craftsman-style, both painted in muted hues of brown. Fire had partially consumed house number four on the far right, reducing it to little more than charred timbers crisscrossing a blackened cement pad.

  “They all look deserted to me,” Daymon stated.

  “I concur,” answered Lev.

  There was a ripple of soft pops as Daymon cracked all of the vertebra in his back. “What do you think, Tran?” he asked, finishing off his DIY chiropractic treatment by wrenching his neck around, first left, then right.

  Tran looked to Daymon, then regarded the three intact dwellings for a tick.

  “Well … which one floats your boat?” Daymon pressed.

  After subjecting the houses to a mental game of eeny, meeny, miny, moe, Tran said, “The middle one.”

  Daymon slipped his pistol from its holster. Checked the chamber for the gleam of brass. Satisfied, he returned his gaze to Tran. “Why the middle one?”

  “Gut feeling,” Tran said, smiling inwardly.

  Lev shrugged. “Good enough for me.”

  One at a time, with Daymon in the lead and Lev bringing up the rear, the three men crossed the two-lane running in a low-crouch. Once on the other side, Lev paused on the shoulder and scanned the length of the road in both directions. Seeing nothing to indicate that they had been spotted by anything or anybody—dead or alive—he told Tran and Daymon to start out ahead of him. After giving the pair a two-second lead, he kept his gaze locked in the direction of Rendezvous Beach. Casting glances over both shoulders, he rose and crossed the expanse of grass providing a buffer between the homes and stretch of blacktop looping behind them.

  Catching the others near a low hedge bordering the driveway of the light-tan two-story Craftsman, Lev took a knee and regarded Daymon.

  “We get across without being spotted?”

  Lev nodded. “The hammering never stopped.”

  “You sure?” Daymon pressed. “If something’s picked up our scent—”

  “You better stuff that claustrophobia talk,” Lev interrupted. “We are not going to get trapped in the attic in this fucking house.”

  Daymon said nothing.

  “Follow me,” Lev said. Rising into a low crouch, he made his way up the driveway to the tan Craftsman’s garage and banged a fist on the m
ulti-panel door. It was a double-wide roll-up number painted in a brown two-tone scheme and it rattled like hell in its tracks each time he struck it.

  They all cocked an ear and listened hard for a long ten-count.

  “Nothing moving in there,” Lev said.

  “This isn’t Hannah,” Daymon said aloud to himself. Then, without consulting either Lev or Tran, he rose and crept around the left side of the house.

  During the entire exchange between Daymon and Lev, Tran had been panning his head back and forth. Now he had Duncan’s spare Beretta held in a two-handed grip and his eyes fixed on Lev. “Should we follow?” he asked politely.

  Grimacing, Lev pushed the muzzle aside and said, “Holster that thing.”

  Tran did as he was asked without complaining.

  After taking a minute to contemplate Daymon’s behavior, Lev finally spoke up. “We’ll wait here,” he said. “Daymon needs time to himself … to work through some things.”

  Just then Daymon returned from his clockwise recon of the property. “Things are worked through,” he said, eyeing Lev. “There’s a ground-level slider around back but it’s locked and has a bar in the track shoring it up. The front entry”—he hooked a thumb behind him—“has a metal storm door that’s locked up tight. I banged and waited and didn’t hear any movement inside. Which makes sense, because there’s another one of those white Xs drawn on the jamb beside the storm door.”

  “That’s good news,” said Lev, just as the sky opened up and big fat drops began slapping the ground all around them. “Means the place has been cleared of rotters already.”

  “Or booby trapped like the others,” Tran said quietly. “I can fit through this.” He pointed out the doggy door inset into one of the garage’s lower panels. Making the door easy to overlook unless you were right on top of it, the plastic frame and flap were nearly the same light brown as the rectangular panel in which it was installed. Tran lifted the vinyl flap to reveal a plywood sheet blocking the entry from the inside.