Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Cade grimaced. He knew from those intervention TV shows that threats and coercion would get him nowhere. The decision was Duncan’s, and Duncan’s alone to make. So he hung his head and looked on with disappointment as his friend took a serious breath and a greedy gulp of the Jack Daniels-laced coffee. He waited until Duncan drained his cup. It didn’t take long. Then Cade acquiesced, hoisted his coffee and said, “To Logan.”

  Duncan placed the mug next to the empty bottle, hoisted an imaginary drink and said, “Indeed. To Oops.”

  Finished with the coffee and craving more, Cade looked at the Vietnam-era aviator squarely and said, “None of us are going anywhere and nobody’s going to pay for what happened if you’re not sober enough to fly by tomorrow. Forty-eight hours ... that was our deal. Remember?”

  “What day is it?”

  “The day you got sober ... and stayed sober.”

  Shaking his head, Duncan said, “I’m a grown man. I can handle my own affairs.”

  “You need to come to a decision.” Cade let the words hang for a minute then went on. “If your mind is not made up by twenty-three-hundred-hours I am going to load my gear into my pick-up and take whoever wants to go and leave without you.” He didn’t wait for a line of bullshit. Or another excuse. He had a job to do and he was determined to see it through to the end, whether he got there by plane, train, or automobile. Without another word, he bowed out of Duncan’s quarters, closed the door softly behind him, and headed for the Grayson family’s new billet.

  Chapter 61

  Grateful his twelve-hour sentence was over, Jimmy Foley parked his Jeep in the driveway. Though he was technically still ‘inside the wire’ as he’d heard the mercenaries say, he stayed in the rig until he was confident there were no zombies lurking nearby.

  Satisfied he was alone, he hopped out and climbed the creaky steps to the back door. Beginning his newly adopted ritual, he paused outside and listened hard. Nothing. He slipped his key in the deadbolt, unlocked the door and went inside. Once inside with the door locked behind, out came the .40 caliber Springfield XD.

  From being sealed up all day, the still air inside the two-story A-frame-style guest house was hot and made breathing a chore. Pistol leading the way, Foley transited the hall and stopped at the door to the stairway leading down to the single-car garage, mudroom, and half-bath on the lower level. Finding it locked, he padded back the way he’d come, boots tapping a quiet cadence on the tiles underfoot. Cutting the corner, he made his way down the hallway that shot straight off the back entry, passed the empty powder room on his left along the way before emerging into the front half of the open-floor-plan home. To his immediate left was an open kitchen sporting a large quartz island with a trio of bar stools pushed against it. Ignoring the thought of rewarding himself with a warm beer for enduring another day conscripted to Bishop’s group, he skirted the dining room table and threaded between the sofa and coffee table to the front of the home. Concluding his ritual, he inspected the sliding glass door set below the massive wall of windows that afforded a fair amount of lake view between the waterfront homes across the way. Still locked. And he found the makeshift security bar (a wooden dowel he doubted a shambler could thwart) still in the channel where he had placed it earlier. Leaving the door secured, he used a long pole specially designed for the job and opened all of the upper windows, letting the evening breeze in. He put the pole aside, turned and looked up towards the loft where the master bedroom lorded over the living room. Nothing seemed amiss. Times like these, one can’t be too careful.

  Something about returning to an empty house when there were dead things walking the world unnerved the hell out of him. And that was why he was allowed to pick any home on the peninsula. And that was also why he eschewed the larger, more opulent homes across the gravel lane in favor of this one. The fewer rooms to clear before turning in, he reasoned, the better.

  The stairs to the loft were massive oak slabs perched centrally on a thick steel beam. A triangular-shaped door below hid a wall of electronics—his favorite part of the new digs. He thought about watching Heat again, but decided against firing up the generator and instead opted for a good night’s sleep so he would be sharp for some patrol Carson was sending him out on. Probably another full day as initial entry while the Spartan guys placed bets on whether or not he’d get bitten, or the daily over under on how many walking dead would scramble from the door as he stepped aside. It wasn’t fun work, but it beat the alternative. Plus, if there ever was a way of escaping this fate that had befallen him, getting past the gate was the first hurdle. And doing so unscathed alongside a dozen heavily armed men carrying a set of legitimate orders might be the only way. Marathon, not a sprint, he reminded himself. He’d either get bitten and then eat a bullet. Or he’d catch the Spartan boys slipping and steal away into the forest.

  With feet sore and heavy from an entire day of standing, sunup to dusk at the east gate, he climbed the stairs and sat on the bed and kicked off his boots. His belt and pistol, still in its holster, went on the nightstand. He fell heavily into the bed fully clothed and, just before nodding off, remembered to say a prayer for his wife and kid, both early victims of the Omega virus.

  Chapter 62

  The clearing was alive with activity. Raven was zipping back and forth along the makeshift packed-earth airstrip, the tactical flashlight Cade had zip-tied to the handlebars casting a blue-white cone of spastically juddering light dozens of feet in front her. Slaloming through the grass, instincts suddenly alive, Max would spring from out of the darkness, enter the light spill and nip at the mountain bike’s front tire just as the diminutive twelve-year-old initiated a wide looping turn.

  Just inside the tree line near the compound’s entrance, Daymon stirred a big pot of chili-con-carne, all the while wishing it was instead a haunch of venison roasting slowly on a spit.

  As usual, the security trio—the moniker Logan had bestowed upon Lev, Chief, and Jenkins—were sitting on camp chairs around the fire, talking about their next mission to the quarry and how best to remove the solar panels off of the high roof without damaging them.

  Near the entrance, Cade was getting his kit in order. “Hand me the night vision goggles and the spare batteries, please,” he said to Brook.

  Glancing away from Raven, who up until then had garnered her undivided attention, Brook rummaged around in the Pelican case and handed the items over. “Are you going to take my advice and slow down after this one?”

  “That’s my plan,” said Cade. “Once the threat is gone.”

  “How long do you foresee yourself being out there?”

  “One day.”

  “Why the comms and NVGs if you’re only gone one day?”

  “OK. Twenty-four hours. Give or take.” He placed the goggles he’d retrieved from his bike in Hanna into the box next to the two pairs Colonel Cornelius Shrill had given him prior to leaving Schriever. Alongside the goggles he put an extra box of ammunition for the Modular Sniper Rifle which would also be accompanying him for this mission.

  “How’s the ankle?”

  “I’ll live,” he replied.

  “I hope so,” Brook said. “For Raven’s sake.” She rose and without another word stalked off towards the fire.

  Cade watched her go. Then he shifted his gaze and regarded Raven for a second. Burned her smiling face into his memory for later retrieval.

  Daymon sauntered over and placed the armored laptop inside the open Pelican container.

  Cade stopped what he was doing, arched a brow, and looked a question at the taller man.

  “She’s still processing it. And you were right ... it was a messy affair. I could almost smell the puddle of shit through the display.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. She needed to see it.” He tucked an errant dread behind his ear. His face suddenly softened as he added, “I needed to see it.”

  There was an uneasy silence between the two men.

  “Ten minutes,” sai
d Daymon as a smile cracked his face. “This ain’t no mess hall. So bring a plate and a spoon.”

  Simultaneously Cade nodded and realized his salivary glands were going crazy. The smell of smoke and the sound and aroma of the pot of chili bubbling twenty feet away was distracting him from the task at hand.

  As he removed a tangle of communications gear from the box, there was a mellifluous rustling in the darkness next to him. Instinctively his hand went to his Glock and suddenly a wiry Asian man whom he hadn’t yet met invaded his personal space and hammered down onto his haunches, butt an inch from the ground—a cultural thing, Cade guessed. The man stared for a second. Liquid black eyes studying and gauging. Assessing threat perhaps.

  Cade’s headlamp illuminated the man’s face from the nose up. Slightly misshapen, his upper cranium looking like a ball peen hammer had been applied to it in random places. And from the long horizontal gash between brow and hairline, foul-smelling yellowed puss oozed between the puckered skin. Cade finally broke down and introduced himself.

  After a quiet few seconds the man said, “I’m Tran.”

  “Good to meet you,” said Cade. “You worked for Robert Christian, right?”

  Tran nodded.

  “He was a piece of work, wasn’t he?”

  “Was?” whispered Tran through swollen lips.

  Shaking his head, Cade said, “Was.” He opened the laptop and, while it powered on, transferred a few smaller items from the big box into the one that would be going with him in either the truck or the helo—the answer to which would be evident shortly. He glanced at his watch: 2145 and still no Duncan.

  Tran crowded closer as the screen flashed blue and the Schriever logo and desktop icons appeared.

  Cade opened the file labeled: RCEX. There was a whirring sound as the hard drive went to work. After a moment a box with an opaque Play button hovering over a blurred image filled the entire screen. Placing the pointer over the arrow, Cade clicked the button and turned away, leaving Tran to watch the execution alone.

  As Cade arranged the remaining items in the box, he heard the charges being read aloud to Robert Christian. Then the pleading he remembered followed by a loud thunk and silence. A second later the clip was replaying and Tran was watching as tears streamed down his face.

  After clicking the case containing his gear shut, Cade heard the thunk again, then Tran asked, “Bishop?”

  Meeting the smaller man’s gaze, Cade shook his head and said, “Not yet.”

  Tran’s face tightened. His eyes looked up and away. He appeared to be trying to draw something from his memory.

  “Do you know where Bishop is?”

  Tran shook his head. He said, “Gee six.”

  Cade thought for a half second and said, “Gee six ... you mean Gulf Stream Six?”

  Tran nodded and smiled, showing off a mouthful of broken teeth.

  “What happened to you?”

  Tran said, “Bishop’s men beat me.”

  Cade made no reply but seethed inwardly.

  “Time to eat,” called Daymon.

  Tran rose and wandered off towards the wildly dancing firelight.

  Cade saw Brook herding Raven over and made a mental note to ask Brook to see to Tran’s wounds. Then from behind he heard the steel door hinge open, followed at once by Sasha chattering excitedly about something. His eyes followed as the girl and the new lovers, Taryn and Wilson, walked by, barely acknowledging him. He pressed the light button on his Suunto and checked the time in its soft blue glow: 2210. There was another rustling from behind and a hand gripped his shoulder. A voice from the dark, low and with a southern drawl said, “I owe you one, Grayson.”

  Cade said, “You owe yourself. I had nothing to do with it.”

  Hands on hips, Duncan said nothing. He swiveled his head towards the fire.

  Seeing the fire reflected off Duncan’s glasses and reading the body language as belonging to someone not entirely defeated, Cade said, “We better get it before it’s gone.”

  Nodding, Duncan left Cade alone with his gear and walked off towards the gathering crowd.

  Cade watched him go and pulled out his satellite phone. After powering it on and acquiring a signal, he scrolled through the menus and selected a preset. He tapped out an SMS message and hit send. Leaving the phone powered up, he locked the keys and stuffed it back into his pocket. Stomach growling like a cornered wolverine, he rejoined the small band of survivors to enjoy his first good meal in a long while.

  Chapter 63

  After many hours of conversation—most of it forced—Bishop led Jamie back to her room. With the soft steady hum of the generator serenading them, there was a moment outside of the door when she could tell by his body language that he wanted to lean in and kiss her. She sensed him exuding a certain nervousness totally out of character for someone who had survived SEAL training and several deployments in the recent wars. Hell, she thought. Someone who survived the Omega outbreak and rose to lead his own group of mercenaries should be fearful of no man—or woman. But now that she knew he was one of those naturally awkward ones, she decided to use it to her advantage. String him along to a certain degree. She said, “I think it’s working.”

  He said nothing. But his head cocked a little, showing a measure of intrigue.

  “The Stockholm thing. I’ll never forgive Carson for what he did. But you ... like my mom always said ... life gives you a bowl of lemons, you make lemonade.” Guts churning, full of disgust at what she was about to initiate, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. In the process, the shred of fabric passing itself off as a dress rode up to the small of her back, leaving bare everything below. She figured him falling for her advance was perhaps a 50/50 proposition. And if he did, she put the odds of him grabbing her and dragging her into the room caveman-style at probably 80/20 for.

  The former happened at once as his inhibition crumbled. His hand went to her bare backside. Her stomach clenched and adrenaline flowed freely in her body. She saw lust in his eyes, indicating the latter was dangerously close to happening. Until she had a split-second epiphany. She gently pushed his hand away and said the four words that in her experience had the power of kryptonite to even the horniest of men. “I’m on my period.”

  There was a moment’s hesitation on his part. She could almost hear the gears turning in his head. However, the lust leaving his eyes was impossible to miss. His smile turned to a grimace. Throw him a bone, she thought to herself. “It’s at the end, though.”

  Still he made no reply. He seemed to be wavering on some kind of decision she knew would end badly for her so she pushed all of her chips in and said, “I haven’t been fucked since the world went to shit.” Which was the truth and it appeared that he bought it. “So what’s one more day? You reserve the table and pick out the wine, and when we retire tomorrow night it will be together in the same bed. Deal?”

  More hesitation on his part. The same amount of words—none. His eyes were boring into hers. Finally he said, “Deal.” He opened the door and made a grand sweeping gesture indicating she should enter.

  Rubbing the welts on her wrists, Jamie asked, “Are you going to handcuff me?”

  Outside there was a long burst of gunfire. It resonated for a moment, the echo amplified by the proximity to water. Then a tick after it dissipated a wicked grin appeared on Bishop’s face. He said, “We’ll save that for tomorrow. Consider tonight a test of your loyalty.”

  Definitely one of the tactics employed by the Symbionese Liberation Army who had held the newspaper magnate’s daughter hostage. They gave her some rope but not enough to hang herself. Let the sense of inclusion, over time, help win her over. Breaking Jamie’s train of thought, Bishop’s grin disappeared. He promised, “If you so much as crack this door I’ll let the boys have you. And when they’re done ... if you survive ... I’ll have them feed you to the dead.”

  Somehow remaining stoic despite the visual his threat conjured in her mind, she mouthed, “Thank you,” fli
cked on the light and backed into her room.

  After the door closed, Bishop remained there for a moment, listening, half-expecting to hear the slider hauled open followed by hasty footsteps across the porch roof. In fact, deep down he welcomed it. Welcomed the chase that would ensue. After all, like she’d said, ‘What is one day?’ And that’s all it would take for him to find her and take what he coveted anyway. But, slightly disappointed, he heard nothing. Not a peep.

  Before retiring to his room, he padded to the door by the stairs and heard the loud rumble of Elvis’s snores. Then he went downstairs and retrieved the pistol from under the table. He stuck it in his waistband near the small of his back and blew out the candles, leaving only the faint glow of the moon off the lake’s surface to guide him. He negotiated the furniture carefully, their placement still foreign to him. Scaled the stairs and paused in front of Jamie’s room. Nothing. Not even a choked sob or the sound of crying reached his ears. Not that he really expected it. She was proving to be a worthy opponent—and after he had finally broken her completely—she’d be a worthy mother to his children as well.

  He made his way to the master bedroom and, once the door was closed behind him, called Carson on the two-way to let him know that the usual test was a go. It was a kind of controlled experiment that up until now had ended badly for every single one of the women he had deemed worthy to bear him children.

  The .38 caliber revolver, now relieved of its bullets, he left in plain view on the nightstand closest the door. His semi-automatic Sig Sauer went under the pillow that was to be Jamie’s if she lived to see the day.

  Content in the knowledge that the next day was going to be glorious—in more ways than one—he put his head on his pillow, closed his eyes, and let sleep take him.