Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  A trio of garages nearly the size of his home back in Portland sat sentinel nearer the road, one belonging to each lakefront mansion.

  Cade padded across a carpet of fallen needles, ducked through a grouping of tired-looking rhododendron bushes and found himself standing in front of the guest house of the middle mansion. Built in an A-frame style with the double-car garage below and what looked to be guest quarters above, the structure was much bigger than he’d originally thought.

  Sitting in front of the right-side garage door, parked on the cement pad, its hood still warm to the touch, was a boxy SUV, the tags on the back proclaiming it to be a Jeep Commander. New to me, thought Cade. The only rig he deemed appropriate to associate the venerable Jeep name with usually had a soft top, a roll bar, and a vertical grill between closely spaced headlights.

  Nonetheless, the Commander would do.

  Stopping at the bottom of a flight of stairs angling up to the right of the structure, he listened hard but heard nothing. So he scaled the steps, heel and toeing it to the top, silent as a ghost.

  Chapter 78

  McCall, Idaho

  Forty minutes prior

  Another monotonous day in the books, thought Foley as he nosed into the driveway, disappointed. There had been no mission with Carson and his men. Therefore he had experienced none of the excitement and adrenaline rushes that came along with going house-to-house and clearing out the dead. No, this day had been more of the same: too many grueling hours standing under the hot sun interspersed with mad minutes of gunfire and then the inevitable back-breaking work of digging graves to bury the infected in.

  He climbed the stairs, hopefully for the last time. Then he initiated his ritual, also hopefully for the last time. The house was quiet. The door was still locked. He turned the key in the lock and upon entering the A-frame was hit square in the face with a blast of carrion-free super-heated air. Thankfully everything was as he had left it. The downstairs and sliding doors remained locked and the loft above was unoccupied.

  He looked at the massive television with attached Blu-Ray player and the shelves crammed full of movies and thought to himself, fuck Heat. There was still more than enough of it trapped inside the house. Besides, there were other more important things on his agenda tonight and priming and starting a generator was not one of them.

  Instead he pulled two warm bottles of Bud from a twelve-pack on the island. Cracked one open, waited for the pungent nose to waft away, and drank half of it in one long pull. After a long, drawn-out belch that echoed around the room, he downed the rest—frothy backwash and all—then promptly unlaced his boots and left them on the floor beside the island.

  With a newfound pep in his step and the beginnings of a slight buzz hitting him, he took the slick wooden stairs two at a time.

  After spending a minute upstairs, Jimmy returned to the kitchen carrying a black backpack stuffed full of all his worldly belongings: a handful of pictures of his wife and daughter, extra ammunition for the pistol, two changes of clothes, and a high powered headlamp that had already come in handy for searching the deep dark recesses of unfamiliar abandoned homes where things reeking of death hungrily laid in wait.

  He was leaving on foot, that much he’d already decided. So he opened some bottled waters and filled his hydration pack. Then he broke down a couple of MREs and placed the individual items in the pack’s side pockets. Lastly, he took his XD from its holster, removed the mag, and cleared the chamber. He stripped the pistol into four separate pieces and cleaned each one. When he was finished, he reassembled the parts, inserted the magazine, and placed the handgun on the island.

  He opened another beer and set the alarm on his wristwatch for 3 a.m. Full dark. The time of night when alertness wanes and nearly every sentry starts to bemoan his loss of sleep and pray for dawn to arrive. And also a perfect time, Foley had decided, for him to make a run for it.

  Two beers later he snatched up his pistol and scaled the stairs. In less than a minute, the waning daylight gleaming faintly through the adjacent bank of windows, he was sound asleep.

  ***

  Foley’s eyes snapped open. In his nightmare, his daughter, Samantha, had been chasing him again. It was always a slow motion, almost comical, pursuit through his old home. Around the island first, her hands outstretched and reaching. And then he fell. The visions were always the same and played out exactly as they did in real life weeks ago. Only this time he didn’t shoot her dead. In the dream he tripped on something and she was atop him. Clawing and scratching until her bent fingers got tangled in his short beard. He decided in his subconscious state this time to let her live. And it was his undoing. Sam pulled closer, teeth clicking. Then, though he hadn’t gone to get his gun from the safe yet, for some reason he could smell gunpowder. And in the twisted reality of his dream that was now bordering on nightmare, the stench was inexplicably on her breath. So he gave up. Accepted his fate, willing to join his family at last. But once again the same subconscious that had been terrifying him nightly since he’d pulled the trigger in real life wouldn’t let him die in the ethereal one.

  Coming to, he focused his sleepy eyes on the silver-dollar-sized oval trained on him and came to the frightening realization that it was real. And then it became evident the cordite stench clinging to the matte black cylinder was also real, not Sam’s breath nor a part of his nightmare. The slightly wavering oval was made of metal, quiet and deadly and of this world. As was the man in black brandishing the pistol it was affixed to. A tick after waking, Foley heard, “Planning on leaving soon?” He nodded, then moved his head an inch left. Looked the length of the barrel and admitted, “Yeah ... but it looks like I should have left earlier.”

  Cocking his head, Cade said, “Let’s hear it.” He put the lock gun that he’d used to gain the quiet entry back in his pocket and came out with a pair of cuffs modeled from zip ties. Lastly, he set the cuffs on the man’s chest and ordered him to put them on.

  Reluctantly, Foley acquiesced. He clenched the rigid plastic tip of the first tie in his mouth and pulled it tight. After doing the same with the other, he looked up at his captor and arched a brow as if asking silently, Now what?

  Cade checked the man’s work, then added a couple more clicks for good measure. Satisfied, he took the man’s pistol from the small of his back where he’d temporarily stowed it. Removed the magazine and checked the pipe. Clear.

  Cade replaced the weapon in his belt and took a seat on a chair kitty-corner from the cuffed man. “Let’s start with your name.”

  After meeting Jimmy Foley, former IT professional and outdoor enthusiast formally, Cade had him detail Bishop’s operation, beginning with which house across the lake was his and how many others were present and where they stayed. Cade committed these details to memory, then rifled through Foley’s wallet. He looked at the Idaho license and asked, “Why this place? Looks like you used to stay in southwest McCall.”

  Foley shook his sunburned bald head. A tear showed at the corner of his eye. “Couldn’t go back there ... after—”

  “Something bad happened there?”

  Foley nodded. He was sitting up on the bed now, fully clothed in camo shorts and a thin cotton shirt of the same pattern favored by hunters, his chest rising and falling, obviously fighting to keep the awful memories of that day from tearing him apart.

  “Something bad happened everywhere,” said Cade. “But I’m going to need your help here.”

  Foley straightened up, nodding.

  Already having cross-checked the many details divulged by Foley and deciding the man was who he said he was, Cade asked the most important question.

  Once again Foley nodded. “Yesterday,” he said. Cade nodded to that and said, “Thank you. Now I’m sorry I have to do this but unfortunately I have no choice.”

  Foley closed his eyes and turned away, waiting for the darkness.

  Chapter 79

  Being down four capable people at the compound, Chief made the executive decision
and nixed the campfire the younger folks, Raven especially, were clamoring for.

  So Brook used the time between dinner and lights out to go over the basics of field stripping her stubby Colt carbine. With Raven and Sasha sitting cross-legged at the ground near her feet, and the two love birds Taryn and Wilson dang near spooning each other a few feet removed, she held the rifle up for all to see and popped out the takedown pin. “Do not drop ...” The old saying do as I say, not as I do, entered her mind the moment the little black pin squirted from her grip and was lost from sight in the matted-down patch of grass.

  “I got it, Mom,” said Raven as she went to all fours and started combing the ground where she thought she saw it fall.

  Soon all five of them were searching for the piece with the beams from a pair of headlamps added to the mix to augment the day’s failing light.

  Five heads nearly touching and as many pairs of hands feeling around, Brook thought the odds of finding the crucial component seemed a sure bet.

  But that wasn’t the case. It seemed as if Mister Murphy was in attendance tonight. Better he’s mucking things up here than somewhere else, she conceded to herself. Then she tried to imagine what her man was doing at this very moment and came up blank. She removed her hat and plopped it on the ground to mark the spot and said, “Everybody inside. We’re done here for the night.” Leaving the search for the pin for the morning, she policed up the parts of her rifle and rose. Taking Raven’s hand, she called for Max and began the lonely walk back to the compound entrance.

  Chapter 80

  Lev heard Cade’s voice in his earpiece: Bring my kit and meet me halfway. So he picked up the pack and carbine and set out towards the row of bushes Cade had entered a few minutes prior.

  Before leaving the guest house, Cade extracted his sat-phone and typed out a quick text message. Stowing the sleek device in a cargo pocket, he peered through the back glass. Clear. With his ankle starting to throb again, he took the steps at a leisurely pace, crossed the lawn, and met up with Lev near the fragrant rhododendrons. He shrugged on his ruck and clicked his M4 to the center-point sling, then held a quick huddle with the others after which he traded the suppressed Glock to Lev for the laptop and accepted the blood-soaked helmet from Daymon for safekeeping. With a fist bump and a few words of encouragement, he sent Lev and Daymon off on a separate mission of their own.

  Once the pair were out of earshot, Duncan asked, “You sure that’s going to work?”

  “It’s got to,” answered Cade.

  “I figure we’re outgunned ten-to-one. No way to win a shootout against those kind of numbers.”

  “Try fifteen-to-one,” proffered Cade.

  “With no air or arty to call in ... just starting out we’ll be fighting an uphill battle.”

  To which Cade replied, “Have faith in me, friend.”

  “You have an ace?”

  Remaining stoic, Cade said, “Desantos always practiced what he preached. And he liked to say: ‘Keep your cards close to your vest and a derringer up your sleeve.’”

  Duncan said ruefully, “It’s a shame I didn’t have a chance to get to know that fella.”

  Talking as he walked back towards the guest house, Cade agreed, “He’s missed. That’s for sure. But we’ve got to go on if we’re going to somehow reverse this extinction-level event we’ve found ourselves in.” He started up the stairs, carbine banging his thigh, and gripping the rail white-knuckle-tight, letting his upper body strength counter the extra stress on the ankle. Grimacing, he craned over his shoulder and went on, “Cowboy had a favorite MacArthur quote ... want to hear it?”

  Pausing on a stair, Duncan said, “I’m all ears.”

  “Usually after beating some young swinging dick in a shooting competition or out on the O-course (obstacle course), Cowboy would say: ‘Age wrinkles the body; quitting wrinkles the soul.’”

  “So true,” said Duncan. He followed Cade through the door and once inside marveled at the triangle of custom glass opening out onto the elevated deck. Tugging on his collar, he said, “If we’re staying here until full dark then we really ought to open some of those windows.”

  “That’s my plan,” Cade said behind a grin. “Go on upstairs and check out the arrangement.”

  Duncan said, “I’ve had it with stairs.”

  Chuckling, Cade said, “Quitting wrinkles the soul.”

  Shaking his head, Duncan said, “Fuck off.” Then relented and began to climb the oak stairs, muttering the entire way.

  Cade put his carbine aside and placed his backup compact Glock 19 at arm’s reach on the island before him. He was in the midst of assembling the MSR when Duncan called down to him from above asking, “What’s this hot mess up here?”

  “Jimmy Foley. Says so on his Idaho driver’s license.”

  “What’d he do?”

  “Ask him.”

  Looking at the sweating mess with equal measures of empathy and anger, Duncan removed the washcloth from the man’s mouth. Bald head beaded with sweat, arms and legs zip-tied at four points, Foley’s chest heaved as he drew in an unimpeded breath of fresh air.

  Duncan interrogated Foley in much the same way as Cade had. Finally, after all of his questions had been answered, he went silent and hung his head.

  Foley stammered, “Don’t kill me. I can help you. Anything that I can do ... I will.”

  “Have you killed a man?”

  Eyes bugged and locked with Duncan’s, Foley shook his head wildly side-to-side.

  Duncan called down to Cade. “I think he’s being truthful.”

  In the process of hauling his gear up the stairs, Cade replied, “That’s what my gut was telling me.”

  “Cut him loose?”

  Having just cleared the final step, Cade dumped his gear on the bed and opened the laptop, placing it on a side table. He cocked his head and looked at Duncan. “Ya think?”

  Gradually Foley was coming to the realization that he might live to see another day. His head, ever so slowly, began bobbing up and down, his chin hitting his chest with force.

  Duncan pulled a lock-blade knife from a cargo pocket and sliced through Foley’s bonds, feet first. While removing the flex cuffs on his wrists, Duncan leaned close and whispered, “Don’t make me have to kill you. Because I will.”

  Rubbing his wrists and sensing he was ahead of the game, and not wanting to foul it up, Foley simply nodded and watched the man in black move about the room.

  While Duncan was looking at the satellite image on the open laptop, Cade was pulling the drawers from a shaker-style dresser. All six ended up in the far corner, their contents, once nicely folded clothes and bedding, spilling out on the floor.

  Looking at Foley, Cade said, “Give me a hand with this.”

  Without a second’s hesitation, with Duncan watching him like a hawk, Foley rose from the plush chair and grabbed the dresser’s end nearest him.

  Cade said, “We’re going to place it perpendicular to the ... ” then suddenly stopped speaking. He placed his end down and pressed one hand over his earpiece. He nodded, obviously listening to someone, somewhere. This went on for a moment before he responded, “It’s your call. Kill or capture.”

  Still holding up his end of the dresser while looking quizzically at the man calling himself Cade, Foley tried to figure out what these two men, who appeared miles apart in training and composure, were really up to. He had already come to the conclusion, due to the nature of the earlier questioning, that Bishop and his men were the hunted.

  But given the disparity in numbers, he was beginning to question his earlier assumption that had him living to see another day.

  Picking up his end of the rather sturdy dresser, Cade resumed where he’d left off. “As I was saying, I want to place this perpendicular to the railing here.” They dragged it across the room and positioned it slightly angled to the right. “Do you know how to open those windows?”

  Foley nodded. He said, “You want all of them open?”

 
“Negative,” said Cade. “Only the long one in the center.”

  Foley shuffled across the room and went down the stairs, then retrieved the pole from where he’d left it the day before. The system was simple but required time and patience. He slipped the curved end of the ten-foot pole into the eye hook affixed to the box just below the rectangular window that housed a screw-drive mechanism. One end of the pole had an egg-beater-style hand crank of the sort found on old-fashioned hand-powered drills. He started in conservatively. Then found a rhythm and cranked the window fully open. Instantly a cooling breeze rolled in over their heads, hit the back wall and supplanted the hotter air, chasing it down and out of its realm.

  Cade said, “Perfect.” He flipped down both stubby legs of the bipod and placed the Modular Sniper Rifle atop the dresser, its lengthy suppressor pointing in the general direction of the center house five-hundred yards distant.

  Duncan said, “You sure you don’t want to move closer? Set up in one of the other houses?”

  “No need,” replied Cade, “The angle and range from here is optimal. Now all I need is a target.” He pulled the floral chair to the end of the dresser, piled some of the spilled bedding on top of the seat cushion, and took a load off.

  After acquiring the target house he tweaked the optic, drawing the slightly shimmering image into sharp focus. Through the clear glass railing surrounding the covered porch he saw a table and chairs. With no reason to their placement, a dozen beer bottles sat atop the table. To the right, dominating most of the front level, were sliding doors, all glass, designed to open wide, presumably to let nature in. He pressed his cheek to the rest and leaned in and trained the optics on the bank of upstairs windows where he saw some movement. After a few seconds of watching a dark-haired woman moving about the room, Cade was convinced the woman he was looking at was Jamie. “Duncan,” he called out. “I think I see our girl.”