In Harm's Way: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  “I wasn’t sleeping. I was listening to you guys... If you need to go and help the President...don’t worry, while you’re gone nothing will befall Mom when I am on the job.”

  “I’ve heard that somewhere before. Correct me if I am wrong, but so far you’re batting a thousand,” Cade said, giving his daughter a little wink.

  He lay in bed propped up on one elbow while Brook and Raven got ready to leave. He took note of how Brook carried herself, the way she grabbed her rifle, holding it naturally, like it was a part of her. Reassured, he watched his family leave and then rolled over, looking forward to an encore to his best sleep in days.

  ***

  Brook decided to change her morning routine around a bit and let Carl get some extra rest. She was more than happy to put off her least favorite part of being a nurse until later.

  Raven followed on her mom’s heels trying her best to keep pace. After a series of twists and turns moving along the internal corridors dissecting Schriever AFB, Brook stopped in front of a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only” and rapped sharply on the metal door.

  “What are we doing here Mom?”

  “Practice patience, sweetie. You’ll see when we get there.”

  The door cracked open a sliver. “Give me a minute,” a baritone male voice said before shutting the door.

  Precisely forty-three seconds elapsed before the fully dressed and squared away Colonel Cornelius Shrill reopened the door. “Top of the morning ma’am,” he nodded his bald head in Brook’s direction and then bent down to Raven’s level, “and a good morning to you young lady.”

  “Hi.” Raven offered a hesitant little wave to the imposing figure.

  “Good to see you again and it comes rather unexpected at that,” Shrill said as he arched one eyebrow and shot Brook a quizzical look. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Colonel, I’m sorry we’re here so early but sleep seems to be rather elusive these days. I was hoping you could do me a favor. I wouldn’t normally be this forward... but considering the times what I need from you is very pertinent,” Brook explained.

  “You helped me. No, I take that back. You helped everyone inside of this base by stepping out of your comfort zone and going up into that tower, picking up a rifle--and using it very effectively, I might add, against the Z’s.” Shrill gazed down at Raven whose eyes were bugging out of her head. “And then there’s the whole sneaking into a helicopter full of Rangers and going along on the hospital assault thing,” Shrill said, finishing with a barely perceptible wink at the petite woman.

  Brook was almost speechless and more than a little bit embarrassed from the accolades that Shrill had just heaped on her. “Colonel, all I need is a small caliber rifle and some ammunition. I want to teach my daughter how to shoot so she can protect herself when the need arises. I didn’t know who to ask... and since you’re the base commander...”

  Shrill cut her off before she could finish. “Your husband is going on an important operation today... is that why?”

  “No Sir. She’s eleven and in these times eleven might as well be twenty. There are so many things I need to teach her...” Brook sighed. “She won’t always have her Dad and me to protect her and I just want the little peace of mind knowing that she at least has a grasp of the basics. That’s all.”

  “Let’s go see what we can beg, borrow or steal from the armorer,” the Colonel said with a little gleam in his eye.

  ***

  Just inside of the East fence

  “Hold it firm against your shoulder and look down the sights,” Brook said as she hovered behind Raven. “Do you see how the two pieces of metal line up?”

  “Yeah... sort of,” Raven answered. “Should I shoot now?”

  “Yes. Once you’re sure the target is in your sights... gently squeeeeze the trigger,” Brook instructed her daughter.

  POW!

  The report from the Ruger 10/22 wasn’t as loud as the other gunfire she had been exposed to, yet she still jumped. “Gross...” Raven exclaimed, remembering to engage the safety before putting the gun down. Then she covered her face with both dainty hands and commenced pacing back and forth.

  “Raven, get back on the horse... you can do it. Pick up the rifle. There’s a round in the chamber so wait until the target is in the sights and follow the same routine... but this time aim a little higher.”

  Raven retrieved the gun. “Do I have to?” she asked even as she was aligning the rifle with her shoulder.

  Brook didn’t answer.

  Unfazed by the wound, the creature still clutched the fence with both alabaster hands, working thin bony fingers against the wire. Raven’s shot had entered the male zombie in the neck area, where black fluid from a dime-sized hole steadily seeped onto its soiled tee shirt. She had been aiming for the thing’s nose, but this time she shifted her bead to the walker’s forehead.

  POW!

  The zombie’s right eye disappeared as the lead from the small .22 entered and then tumbled around inside of its skull, destroying the brain in the process, and causing the twice-dead creature to collapse on the ground.

  “Put the safety on and keep your eyes open,” Brook ordered. She hefted the M4, double checked that the selector was on single shot, and then closed the distance to the fence. While steadily firing, Brook swept the carbine left to right, methodically dropping the amassed walkers with accurate head shots. She stopped advancing only when the magazine was empty and the bolt locked open. “They’re not human anymore... don’t you forget it,” Brook said with an icy tone to her voice.

  “Want me to finish the last two?” Raven asked.

  “I want you to enjoy finishing the last two.” There goes the Parent of the Year Award, Brook thought while she watched Raven concentrate on the task at hand.

  After six shots mixed in with a fair amount of hesitation, the remaining walkers were felled by the diminutive eleven-year-old.

  Raven turned around and gazed into her mom’s tired eyes. “Mom, you need a hot bubble bath.”

  Calgon isn’t taking me away anytime soon, Brook thought, resigned to the fact that they would never be allowed to let their guard down if they were going to survive the apocalypse. And after what she just put Raven through she wondered which direction Saint Peter was going to send her when she met him at the Pearly Gates.

  Chapter 3

  Outbreak - Day 8

  Apartment 904

  Viscount Arms Condominiums

  Downtown Denver

  Wilson pried the blinds open and peered between the dusty horizontal slats. During the last thirty-six hours the zombies had begun exhibiting a strange new routine. On the street below the dead had returned in greater numbers. The shambling creatures clumsily caromed off of each other in their attempt to keep pace with the lead elements of the pack. At first Wilson had enjoyed watching the “running of the bulls” as he had taken to calling the spectacle. Even though the monsters weren’t a herd of snorting, frothing bovines thundering through downtown Denver, that’s precisely what they sounded like.

  ***

  The previous day Wilson had left his sister alone in their apartment and embarked on a fact-finding mission to the penthouse one floor above. The Viscount Arms was only a ten-story building in a city of skyscrapers; the title penthouse had been applied loosely. Ted, one of the residents on the ninth floor, had informed Wilson that the penthouse owners were staying elsewhere while their unit was being renovated. Fully aware that the wall of windows on all four sides of the penthouse would afford him the best vantage point, Wilson ventured upstairs to observe the zombies and their new behaviors.

  Kicking in the door had been the easy part--sitting alone with his thoughts and worry was nearly unbearable. Wilson had to wait two hours before the zombies finally returned. Although he was no expert in estimating the number of bodies in a crowd, what he saw scared the shit out of him--it appeared that in only twelve hours the throng of dead had doubled in size. He was so shaken by their sheer number
s his legs went numb, forcing him to sit down. The young man cradled his face with open palms, took a deep mind cleansing breath, and thought his options through. Every scenario he war gamed in his head boiled down to one outcome. Wilson harbored a sinking feeling that it would only be a matter of time before the crowd of dead would return in such massive numbers, he and the others would become encircled and forever trapped. He feared that if they didn’t leave soon, the ten-story Viscount Arms would become their very own Alamo.

  ***

  Apartment 904

  Wilson and Sasha gawked as the shambling corpses crashed and slammed into every abandoned car lining South Proctor Boulevard. With each impact below, hollow thuds echoed up to the ninth story window. Wilson noticed that sound carried all too well in the dead city as another sharp crack, like two cars colliding, resounded from the street below. “Scratch her back bumper,” Wilson said. He was witnessing the slow and steady disintegration of his very first car.

  “I told you to use Mom’s reserved parking spot while she’s not here,” Sasha said, never afraid to give her two cents’ worth to anyone that would listen. Even though the siblings were very close, her know-it-all attitude rankled Wilson. Acting out of pure superstition, he had intentionally left their mom’s spot vacant. He hoped doing so would ensure her return. Now, unfortunately, he was the only person around for Miss Perfect to correct.

  Their mom was a flight attendant for Southwest Airlines and had been working on a flight to the East Coast the day the outbreak began. When the DHS and FEMA stepped in and started taking measures to control the spread of the new virus, her plane had been grounded, along with thousands of other aircraft around the country.

  Their mom’s last call came from a pay phone at Dulles International and she seemed upbeat about the forced layover, even telling Wilson it would give her the time to finally see the Smithsonian and actually be able to enjoy it. At the end of their conversation she told Wilson that Southwest had put her up in the Washington Dulles Marriott until the TSA could sort things out.

  Because Wilson had been the last to see her as she drove off and the last to talk to her on the phone, he carried a heavy cargo of guilt.

  The siblings watched CNN, reluctant to take even a bathroom break, while news reports trickled in from around the world on that first day. They couldn’t turn off the television. The footage of undead creatures lurching along Pennsylvania Avenue was horrifying and inconceivable. They sat wide eyed, holding each other for comfort, as the nation’s capitol, the very place their mother had been stranded, was overrun by living dead. Hours prior to nightfall the news channels broadcast word that President Odero, his family and most of his cabinet were being evacuated from the White House to an undisclosed, safe and secure location. It was apparent then that the city belonged to the dead. Wilson and Sasha hadn’t heard from their mom since.

  Wilson, being the older of the two, didn’t have the heart to tell his sister what his intuition was telling him. Deep down, he knew they would never see Mom again. With the raw current of sadness and loss still coursing through every cell in his body, he thought back to the previous Saturday. He had watched from the very same window as his mom’s Volvo exited the basement garage and zippered into the river of traffic heading south to Denver International Airport.

  Before Wilson had left the condo to live an eighteen-year-old bachelor’s lifestyle, the odds of Mom leaving them alone overnight were slim to none. Wilson, now twenty years old, had recently returned to the nest. Because of the economy and his shitty job, he found that paying all of his bills and eating was not possible. And with the hours his boss expected him to work to earn his salary, a second job was impossible to hold down. He still hadn’t gotten used to the newfound trust he had apparently earned since coming home but being the “man” of the house had its privileges; Sasha had to listen to him for once. That feeling of empowerment was short-lived and turned into a ten ton yoke of responsibility the second their mom went missing and the dead started to walk.

  Wilson snapped out of his daydream as yet another walker abused his prized Ford Mustang. He clasped his hands behind his neck and witnessed the last wholly intact piece of glass on the passenger side implode, the sharp report adding to the dissonance on the street.

  “Get your bag Sis... We’re leaving as soon as the tail end of the herd passes.”

  “I’m ready,” the redheaded teenager said, hefting three trendy leather bags.

  Wilson put his favorite photo, the one with Sasha, him and their mom together posing in front of a Christmas tree, inside his purple and black Colorado Rockies bag and slung it over his shoulder. He retrieved the baseball bat he had propped up next to the door, then cautiously eased the door inward and peered down the hallway. The first thing to catch his eye was the dried up lake of blood that had saturated the once beige carpet. The sight instantly reminded him of the violence he had been part and parcel to when the two zombies had emerged from their condominium-turned-crypt. The couples’ blood still stained the barrel of his prized Todd Helton-autographed Louisville Slugger. No matter how hard he tried, Wilson couldn’t purge the ugly sound of wood on skull from his memory.

  As they passed 905, the deceased couple’s door, he couldn’t help but envision Angela and Saul’s bloated bodies festering in their front room where he had deposited them. The memory of their undead two-year-old, arms flailing, desperately trying to attack him through the baby gate would haunt him forever. As if on cue, her little body slammed into the gate. The sound of her ongoing struggle resonated through the door and into the hall. Wilson winced, eager to put the reminders of yesterday’s events out of sight and earshot.

  “Stay close to me and do exactly as I say,” Wilson admonished his sister, who was a few steps behind and struggling to keep up. Even with the death chamber fresh on his mind, he still had to suppress a smile as she tottered along. Her favorite Louis Vuitton purse dangled from one arm, while two fake Coach handbags swung awkwardly, like leather pendulums, from the opposite arm. Her fully loaded swap meet treasures made her walk like Charlie Chaplin, which Wilson found a bit amusing.

  After pausing outside of number 907, listening for anything to indicate that things weren’t all right inside, Wilson summoned his courage and knocked rapidly.

  “Who is it?” a muffled voice inquired from the other side of the door.

  “It’s Wilson.” Use your peephole, genius.

  Ted opened the door after recognizing the familiar voice. “Come in guys.” The big bear of a man ushered them inside and promptly apologized for his partner’s scruffy appearance.

  The two middle-aged men, whom Wilson and Sasha hadn’t met until after the apocalypse, were lucky to have been home, both sick with the flu, when the world went nuts. They had remained indoors, watching the mayhem unfold through their picture window and on television. William sat on the couch shivering even though he had layered himself with two fleece sweat suits. The thick fabric made him appear as bulked up as his partner.

  “Ready to go?” Wilson asked, making a mental note to stay away from the sickly man.

  “As ready as we’ll ever be,” Ted said, emerging from a back room hefting two full daypacks and wielding a wicked-looking black shotgun.

  “I want to stay here,” William said, dabbing his handkerchief across his brow.

  Ted spoke slowly, enunciating every syllable. “If we do not leave now we may never get the chance again.” He loved William to death, but he knew exactly what the lifelong martyr was about to say.

  Before responding, William blew his nose and looked at Ted with glassy bloodshot eyes. “Just leave without me. The condition I’m in... I’ll just slow us down and get everybody killed.”

  “We are out of what you need in here. We have to act now... or never.” The big man pointed at the closed curtains and the world outside. “We’ll find a pharmacy--maybe a Rite Aid or something as soon as we get out of the city.” Ted put the bags and the gun down, planted his hands on his hips, and wait
ed for a response.

  William blew his nose, silently glaring at his partner.

  “Let’s get the others,” Wilson said to Sasha in his best listen to me and do what I say voice. Being a manager at Fast Burger didn’t pay much, but it had taught him to be assertive when he had to. Time was dwindling and he was going with or without these two. Hopefully with, he silently reminded himself, because there is strength in numbers.

  ***

  Ted asked Wilson and Sasha to go on ahead so he could have a moment of privacy with his partner. Since he had always worn the pants in the house, Ted was used to making most of the big decisions and it took him all of three minutes to browbeat William into submission.

  Ted and William caught up with Wilson and Sasha in front of 909. Wilson had stopped there to see if the other four people were still going along with them to Colorado Springs.

  Wilson had run into the thirty-something couple a few weeks earlier while he was working out in the building’s meagerly appointed gym. At the time he thought Megan was pretty hot for an older woman, and James seemed like a nice enough guy. James and Megan were sharing their condo with Lance and Cheryl, who also appeared to be somewhere in their thirties. They had arrived at the Viscount Arms two days after the Omega outbreak, with nothing but a couple of golf clubs for protection and the clothes on their backs. Before the outbreak Lance and James had worked for the same IT firm and regularly played golf together. Cheryl and Megan met at their husbands’ company Christmas party, clicked immediately, and had been best friends ever since. Lance and Cheryl considered themselves extremely lucky, somehow covering the three blocks from their loft to the Viscount, on foot and unscathed.

  ***

  One day earlier

  Viscount Arms Penthouse

  The eight remaining residents of the Viscount Arms condominiums met amidst the construction debris in the vacant penthouse to plan their escape.

  Wilson raided his mom’s nearly bare pantry to provide the canned food feast. Their candlelight dinner was relegated to room temperature Dinty Moore beef stew, canned peas, and a loaf of week-old bread that was just starting to spot with mold.