District: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Now we wait.

  Chapter 75

  Standing on the bridge walkway of the destroyer Lanzhou, Rear Admiral Qi watched the jiangshi milling about on shore through a pair of high-power binoculars. A slight offshore breeze ruffled his wispy gray beard, bringing with it the gut-churning stench of death. The dead were packed mostly into a strip of white sandy beach near where the expeditionary force had gone ashore. Since dropping anchor in the early morning hours and ferrying hundreds of soldiers and a dozen vehicles from the amphibious transport dock Kunlan Shan to shore via four incredibly noisy LCAC hovercraft, their numbers had exploded exponentially, going from hundreds to thousands in the span of a few hours. So Qi had ordered the handful of sailors to pull the LCAC from shore and loiter in case the expeditionary force faced stiff resistance inland and was forced to another beachhead somewhere up or down the waterway for emergency extraction. But that had not been the case. The aptly named Tiger Force had found inroads to most of the rural areas—if cities full of box stores and strip malls dare be called rural—and had made good time prosecuting the PLA Navy’s first ever incursion deep into the eastern half of the United States. However, when word had come that the Tiger Force went radio silent and all attempts to contact them had gone unanswered, Qi had ordered all four LCACs to pull anchor and return to the Kunlan Shan’s well deck to be stowed for travel.

  A young officer approached. “Admiral Qi,” he said, saluting, then standing stiffly at attention.

  “Yes, Lieutenant Shou?”

  “The Cobra force is returning.” Eyes downcast, he added, “But they are only three.”

  Acceptable, thought Qi. “Send the motor launch. Have them wait off shore to the south and sprint north as soon as Zhen and the rest of his team makes the agreed-upon extraction point.”

  The lieutenant nodded and returned to the warmth of the bridge.

  Returning the binoculars to his eyes, Qi saw movement in the ranks of jiangshi. Barely perceptible at first, but soon the entire mass of them were turning north in unison. No longer were the pale faces fixed on the ships off shore. Now the whole lot of them were moving almost as one toward the sounds made by the approaching Cobra team.

  Panning the binoculars right, Qi left the marching jiangshi behind and focused his attention on a spit of land a quarter-mile north where the tree line seemed to merge with the dark green water.

  A minute passed and still the dead were moving up the shore, a good number of them forced into the water where they fought to remain upright and continue their march. The hardy grasses near shore were trampled flat. Smaller trees in the way of the unstoppable surge of flesh and bone were bowed down under the press, some snapping off entirely leaving behind upthrust splintered trunks.

  Barely two hundred yards separated the jiangshi from the spit of land by the time Zhen and his men, loaded down with heavy packs and still carrying their bullpup rifles, emerged onto the narrow half-moon of sand in view of them.

  Shifting the binoculars again, this time beyond the end of the jiangshi column, Qi picked up the noisy motor launch racing south to north toward Zhen and what remained of his team. It was hugging the shoreline and creating a frothy wake that was making it difficult for the struggling jiangshi to stand.

  The launch reached the spit just as the team of commandos began to engage a group of jiangshi that had no doubt followed them from where they had ditched their motorcycles on the far side of the beach. Fire lanced from their rifles and jiangshi fell in droves as the three men waded into the surf, the taller Captain Zhen in the lead.

  Qi drew a deep breath as the backpacks containing the electronic devices filled with sensitive information were finally handed off to a seaman aboard the launch. Only once the team was aboard and the launch was spinning away from the knot of jiangshi that had pursued the team into the water did he exhale.

  Qi waited until the launch was a hundred feet from the Lanzhou then went inside the bridge where it was warm. Celebration was in order, and who was going to tell him he couldn’t do it on the bridge? He pulled the cigar Zhen had given him from his breast pocket. Ran it under his nose, enjoying the earthy smell of one of Cuba’s finest. “Corporal Meng,” he barked. “Fetch my finest spirits from my stateroom. Warm it first.” Who knows, he thought, smiling. Perhaps the entire bridge crew will get a taste of the exquisite elixir.

  “Admiral. I’m picking up multiple low-level contacts inbound, due south, two kilometers, four hundred sixty knots,” said the officer manning the over-the-horizon radar display.

  Two kilometers, thought Qi, his gut clenching. He quickly did the math and came to the conclusion that even if the bogeys were closing at subsonic speed, he had less than fifteen seconds to act. But instead of immediately issuing orders, he burned three seconds getting over the river of denial created by his own hubris.

  A couple of hundred yards off the Lanzhou’s starboard side, Yulin’s running lights went out and a half-dozen HQ-16 medium-range air defense missiles spewed from her vertical launch cell mounted amidships.

  Qi was issuing orders when a frantic call came in telling him the rest of his small fleet ninety miles to the south near Norfolk, Virginia was also under attack.

  Submarine-launched Tomahawks, he thought to himself as two things happened simultaneously. First, the Yulin’s port-mounted Type 730 autonomous close-in weapon systems—a seven-barrel Gatling gun capable of firing fifty-eight-hundred 30mm rounds a minute at inbound threats out to three kilometers—went active, spewing rounds at an unseen enemy, the orange-white fire lancing feet from the barrels impossible to ignore. Then there was a blinding flash off in the distance as the 730 destroyed an inbound threat. A split second later the Kunlan Shan was struck just above her waterline.

  A thunderclap rolled over open water, rattling the Lanzhou’s bridge windows. Qi took a seat, waiting for the inevitable even as his crew followed orders to get away from shore and deploy countermeasures he knew were too little, too late. He’d been fixated on the brass ring and had discounted America. Even in her darkest hour she had proven to be a worthy opponent.

  More flashes of light, this time coming from Yulin as she fired another salvo of outbound missiles. Then there was a trio of explosions as a pair of incoming missiles struck her simultaneously, igniting her magazines in the process.

  Qi felt the Lanzhou shudder and begin to move in reverse while swinging to port. An easy thing to do in open water. In the narrows she was currently in, not so much. Mid-turn, a flurry of HHQ-9 anti-air missiles leapt from the Lanzhou’s vertical launcher, making him squint.

  We may just live to see another day, Qi thought as a trio of explosions lit up the horizon like New Year’s fireworks.

  “Zhen is aboard,” called Corporal Meng, a phone handset pressed to one ear. His eyes darted to the radar officer’s screen and the handset fell from his grip. A second later there was a tremendous explosion and he was ripped into by a thousand shards of glass. A millisecond later, before the pain from the damage caused by the shrapnel could register, he simply ceased to exist as a wall of fire infiltrated the bridge, incinerating Rear Admiral Chan Qi and everything else in its path.

  60 Miles West of Washington, D.C.

  “Night Stalker Airways always strives to bring you, the customer, the best in inflight entertainment,” said Ari in a cheesy voice. “Tonight’s feature is brought to you by the folks at 50th Space Wing Studios. Directed by Major Freda Nash and produced by President Valerie Clay, Chesapeake Chum has received the highest Rotten Tomatoes score of the month. So sit back, relax, and enjoy.”

  Cade’s hand hadn’t left the raised outline of the satellite phone in his thigh pocket since the Ghost Hawk whisked him and his team out of harm’s way thirty minutes’ prior. As he watched the pre-recorded footage roll on the cabin flat-panel, his mood remained guarded. He saw the tiny figures dismount the three motorcycles. Recognizing the full packs worn by the soldiers and seeing them make it to the awaiting launch only soured his mood further.


  Seeing the launch slip by a smaller frigate and reach the gray destroyer made his eyes narrow and temples throb.

  “Wait for it,” Ari said, over the comms. “USS Georgia was nearby. She’s one of the newer converted Ohio Class subs. Lady has claws.”

  Axe leaned forward in his seat, eyes glued to the panel.

  The missiles, just streaks of gray against the dark water, streaked in from the right. Simultaneously two of the three ships launched missiles of their own and there were multiple explosions—just blooms of light as seen from space—and the three ships were momentarily blurred from view.

  “Miss Georgia just redefined close,” Cross said, smiling at Axe. “No way the guys on the launch could have survived those kind of danger close explosions.”

  Don’t bet on it, Cade thought, dwelling on his many experiences with danger close air support.

  When the light flares dissipated on screen the previous image had been altered irrevocably. The larger of the three ships—an amphibious transport by the looks of it—was afire, its stern jutting skyward at a shallow angle. Farther out into the waterway, flammable liquid floating on the surface was burning.

  The destroyer was sunk, that much was clear. Gaping holes were visible in her starboard side which was presenting itself to the eye-in-the-sky satellite. Her bridge and masts were completely submerged. The helicopter hangar was still closed, suggesting nobody aboard had escaped via the helicopter normally stowed there. Nearby, all that was left visible of the smaller frigate was a black slick of oil, fire beginning to lick at its edges. Soon to be consumed by flame or the dead waiting on shore, man-sized figures bobbed on the surface.

  “Utter destruction,” crowed Griff, offering high-fives all around.

  Declining the overture, Cade peered out the port-side glass at the approaching dark band of night to the east.

  “What’s the matter, Wyatt,” Ari asked, “cat got your tongue?”

  Busy working the buttons on the cargo pocket the phone was in, Cade said nothing.

  “Sixteen Tomahawk cruise missiles,” said Axe. “That’s a bit of overkill, don’t you think?”

  “Hell no! That’s a strongly worded message,” Cross quipped.

  “Don’t tread on our soil in an easy to understand language,” added Griff as he peeled off his tactical helmet.

  Ignoring the banter, Cade thumbed the phone on and held his breath as the screen lit up. It took a two-count to refresh, and once it had, he saw that he had an SMS message from Duncan and instantly his stomach sank.

  No gnus is good gnus, had been his mantra at times. It came from some old live-action cartoon he’d watched as a kid. He’d never researched what a gnu was, and never planned on it. This time Murphy had thrown a wrench into the mix, and he was about to find out how effed up things really were back home.

  After opening the message and reading it, he knew the ride home was going to be a difficult one, the two accomplished missions notwithstanding.

  As the flat-panel on the bulkhead went dark, Cade took one last look at the countryside below, then closed his eyes in hopes he’d wake up to find that all that had happened from that day in July when he’d dropped Brook and Raven off at Portland International Airport would have been just one continual nightmare.

  Epilogue

  Eden Compound State Route 39

  Cade awoke with a start to find the nightmare he had been living since late July was the real deal. Bathed in the red glow of the cabin lights, tinted visor retracted and eyes narrowed, Skipper was gripping his shoulder and shaking him lightly.

  The crew chief said nothing.

  No words were necessary. Cade knew he was home. He felt it in his gut. And with that knowledge came the realization that he was moments from finding out if his world was indeed about to be turned upside down, or if the precautionary measures Brook had taken the day before were just that and nothing more.

  Depressing a button on his Suunto to light the display, he learned he’d been asleep for more than ten hours, through two aerial refuels and the star show he’d been anticipating before reading the sobering SMS message from Duncan. Two deaths were going to hit the little Eden community hard. A third might just fracture them for good. News that Daymon and Heidi had already pulled up stakes and moved on had come as a complete surprise. And considering all of the tumult the group had experienced over the previous twenty-four hours, taking in a new survivor was wholly inconceivable.

  Feeling the Ghost Hawk decelerate and begin a wide, sweeping turn, Cade peered out the window. Down below in the inky black flickered the flames of a solitary campfire. It cast an eerie yellow-orange glow on the lone figure seated beside it. On the side of the nearby Winnebago was a man-shaped shadow, the outline of a hat that could only be a Stetson impossible to miss.

  Turning his attention away from the inky void, Cade saw Griff and Cross give him a long-distance fist bump from across the cabin. To his right, Axe was wearing a big smile and flashing him a thumbs-up.

  After reciprocating the gestures, Cade punched out of his safety harness and slid forward on his seat, clutching his M4 and rucksack to his chest.

  “Next stop, Grayson Casa,” said Ari over the shipwide comms. “Thanks for flying Night Stalker Airways.”

  “I don’t want everyone waking up,” Cade said, all business. “So I’ll need you to put down at the end of the airstrip as far away from the Winnebago as possible.”

  “We aim to please,” Ari said, flaring the helo and beginning a slow descent to the moon-splashed clearing where the tall grass was bending and whipping in the rotor wash.

  “Until next time,” Haynes called from the left seat. “Stay safe, Wyatt.”

  Cade had no words. He honestly didn’t know if there would be a next time. So, hoping Ari and Haynes would see it reflected in their small cockpit mirrors, he flashed a thumbs-up and disconnected the coiled cord from his personal comms pack.

  The Ghost Hawk’s landing lights suddenly snapped on a dozen feet from the ground and a blast of cold air tinged with kerosene infiltrated the cabin when Skipper opened the port-side door.

  The helo settled with barely a bounce and Cade was out the door, taking with him a slap on the back from Skipper.

  Cade didn’t look back when the turbines ratcheted from a low growl to a high-pitched whine. He kept trudging toward the light at the far end of the makeshift airstrip even as the harmonic punch hit his lungs and the bird launched into the dark night sky, its landing lights stretching his shadow into some kind of grotesque monster.

  As the Ghost Hawk’s harmonic rotor sound dissipated to nothingness, he heard a series of hollow thuds coming from the direction of the RV. By the time he made it to where Duncan was sitting, shotgun resting across his thighs, it was clear that the Ghost Hawk’s arrival and hasty departure had gone unnoticed by everyone save the man who had quickly become his best friend.

  Cade dropped his rucksack and M4 in a heap on the crushed grass in the light of the fire. He dragged a camp chair around and sat so that he was facing Duncan.

  Duncan said nothing. Just stared straight across the fire at him. On his face was a look conveying a thousand words, none of them good.

  A strong wind gust made the tarps covering the Black Hawk and Humvee crack and pop.

  Suddenly the noise was back. Only this time it wasn’t muffled by distance. Clearly it was coming from inside the Winnebago.

  Ignoring the commotion, Cade flicked his gaze to the fifth bottle of Jack Daniels on the ground by Duncan’s boots.

  “It’s still sealed,” Duncan growled.

  “You drinking again?”

  “I’m still deciding,” he drawled.

  Cade removed his helmet and tossed it along with the attached NVGs onto his gear pile. Wispy fingers of steam rose from his head.

  Duncan cleared his throat. Setting the shotgun beside his chair, he asked, “Do you want me to do it?”

  Cade was silent for a long while.

  “If I do,” Duncan said,
“I’ll only have to live with it for another decade or so. You, on the other hand, have a solid three or four decades ahead of you. If you can keep from getting bit, that is.”

  Cade shook his head. “We made a pact, Brook and I. It’s my duty.” Then the denial he’d just about broken through built up again. “What makes you sure she’s gone?” he asked, voice wavering.

  “Raven saw through the bullshit real quick,” answered Duncan. “Around noon she found the door to the thing locked and went into a tizzy.” He removed his Stetson. The fire reflecting off his glasses, he went on. “Sasha calmed her down. Come supper time Raven took Brook a plate. Got her to open the door. I saw them hug. Brook was starting to look like old Phillip did when I found him. Then I watched your wife give your daughter an envelope and hand over her little Glock.” He wiped a stray tear and buried his face in his hands.

  “How did Raven take it?”

  Voice muffled because he was talking into his palms, Duncan said, “She lost it right then and there.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Glenda gave her a sedative. I’d guess she’s out like a light in our room.”

  “What kind of sedative?”

  Looking up, Duncan fixed his red-rimmed eyes on Cade and said, “I’ve no idea. Glenda’s the nurse.”

  As Cade rose and took a few tentative steps in the direction of the RV’s door, his shadow darkening the covered windows caused a new round of slamming and banging to emanate from inside. Then a pale and twisted hand ruffled the horizontal blinds, bending a number of them in the process.

  Cade opened the outer door, mounted the single step and fished the lock-pick gun from a pocket. After defeating the lock, he looked back and saw Duncan hefting the Jack Daniels bottle, one hand on the long neck, the other about to twist the cap.

  “Better not,” Cade said, hot tears streaming down his face. “Because we’re going to need you, Old Man.” At that he drew his Gerber and crabbed through the door.