In Harm's Way: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  The two bottles of Chianti which Ted brought to the informal meeting were received well and soon passed around.

  Since the day Wilson moved back into the nest, Sasha considered it her job to test his authority, especially when their mom wasn’t around. Wilson quietly watched his sister as she boldly poured herself a small glass of the light bodied Italian wine. He was still learning when and where to pick his battles; therefore, considering the state of the world around them, he turned a blind eye and allowed his sister to win this particular skirmish.

  While the small group of survivors “dined,” the undead herd made yet another appearance down below on Proctor Boulevard.

  Everyone stopped what they were doing simultaneously, forks and glasses frozen in midair and failing to deliver their cargo. The clink of dropped silverware and the sounds of seats being pushed back echoed about the empty space as the group hurried to the windows to take a look.

  Wilson, having already seen enough of the horde, waited until everyone had returned from the windows and taken their seats before he addressed them. He had to speak in his “manager’s” voice in order to be heard over the commotion outside. Once Wilson had everyone’s attention, he quickly spelled out how he and Sasha planned to escape from Denver. His thinking was that Colorado Springs would be safer than anywhere else in the state, mainly because of the large military presence in and around the city. He detailed how they were going to get out of the building and onto the freeway heading south. When he was finished, he made it clear that he couldn’t think of anywhere else to go and welcomed their input or questions.

  Arms went up immediately and the picking apart of his plan commenced.

  “I’m a little confused,” Megan said, adding a tilt to her head.

  To Wilson her tone of voice made her statement sound more like, you’re full of shit, kid.

  “So we’re in our cars and then we wait for the tail... that’s what you called it, right?” Megan asked.

  Wilson wavered a moment, thinking it through, before he answered her question. “When the main group passes by, on the way to wherever the hell they go, there are always a couple of hundred stragglers. Compared to the size of the main body... I call that a tail.” Who is this chick, Wilson asked himself, Greta Van Susteren? He felt like he was being cross-examined. Gone were the days when his biggest worry was a bad secret shopper sent from the corporate office. Wilson didn’t want to lead these people. He just wanted to wake up, go to work, and, in the worst case scenario, maybe have to dress down one of the high school-aged employees because of a dirty Fast Burger uniform.

  The others silently watched the exchange.

  “There’s no power in the building... or the city, for that matter, and I’m assuming our pass cards won’t work at the gate. How do you propose we get out of the lot?” Megan asked, glaring at Wilson over the dancing flame.

  “Good point,” Lance added.

  Wilson began to feel pinpricks of pain from the seat of his pants. His butt had fallen asleep from sitting, much too long, on the plastic five gallon paint bucket masquerading as a chair. He straightened his back and shifted his weight, trying to coax the blood to flow back where it belonged and let silence dominate the room while he tried to collect his thoughts. Wilson made eye contact with the people sitting around the “table” before he delivered his rebuttal. His mom had taught him that looking a person directly in the eye while speaking to them was the best way to get their attention, especially when he wanted to be taken seriously. “I’ve already explored that minor detail. I think we’d all agree that power is usually the first thing to fail during a fire, and that it would be awful to find a few crispy tenants trapped behind that snazzy electric gate. I found the quick release levers; they are about chest high, one on each side.” He held his hand horizontally across his sternum. “It’s a safety feature designed to release the gate, and let it roll up, when the power is out.” Touché, Megan. Wilson smiled inside.

  Megan remained silent while her girlfriend came to her aid. “Who’s going to pull the pins then?” the pretty blonde pressed.

  Wilson swallowed, realizing he couldn’t remember the woman’s name. “If you’re not driving one of the vehicles... then you are pulling the pins. Congratulations... you get to be the heroine.”

  William interrupted. “When do we leav...?” His question was choked off by a fit of violent coughing.

  “When the dead let us,” Wilson replied solemnly, eyes downcast.

  Ted offered William a tissue and rubbed his back through the two tracksuits. Ted’s lips brushed his partner’s ear as he shared some quiet reassuring words.

  By the time the group was finished talking, the candles had burned down to inch high nubs. The wax pooled and hardened on the slab door they had used as a makeshift table. It had taken the “running of the bulls” three hours to squeeze by the Viscount and another thirty minutes before they were out of earshot.

  “When the sun comes up tomorrow we are going to be packed and ready. As soon as those things come by, Sasha and I are leaving.” Wilson scanned the others’ faces, searching for any doubting Thomases. “If any of you want to come along you need to be ready.”

  Ted raised his hand as if Wilson were his teacher.

  Wilson cocked his head, smiled, and called on his Paul Bunyan-looking neighbor. “Yes?”

  “What makes you think they are coming back?” Ted asked, his voice tinged with doubt.

  “I’ve been coming up here for the last five days trying to get a sense of what’s going on outside. Initially the creatures were very predictable--all they did was hunt for people like us to eat. During the last two or three days their movements morphed into what we are seeing now.” Wilson gestured to his old telescope and tripod standing next to the north facing windows. “Even though I can see farther with the telescope, the taller buildings make it difficult to see any of the surrounding streets. So far, I haven’t been able to determine what route they follow or where they go, but the one thing I am certain of, day by day, is that their numbers have been growing considerably larger.”

  James was silent for a tick while he processed the bad news. “If we go along, my truck isn’t big enough for all four of us,” James said, looking at Cheryl and Lance.

  “What does Megan usually drive?” Ted asked.

  “Our other car is a Civic. It usually has more gas in it than my truck. Lance and Cheryl can drive that I guess,” James answered slowly.

  “If I can’t figure out which vehicle belonged to the people in 905, Sasha and I will need a ride,” Wilson added.

  “You and your sister can come in our car,” William offered.

  “We might take you up on that, but we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.” Wilson didn’t want to have to explain how he got the couple’s car keys, let alone that he had killed Saul and Angela and didn’t have the balls to put their toddler down. Sarah’s pale mottled face and tiny snapping teeth haunted him every time he closed his eyes.

  Wilson had taken the keys from the front pocket of Saul’s bloody jeans moments after he brained him. His next door neighbors were the first of the infected that he had seen up close and the first ones he had been forced to kill. Days later he was still trying to wrap his mind around how he had summoned the courage to do what he did... to do what was necessary to survive.

  “We had better turn in,” Wilson said. “Tomorrow is going to be a big day.” Then he said a silent prayer, asking for some sleep without little Sarah starring in any of his nightmares.

  Chapter 4

  Outbreak - Day 8

  Schriever Air Force Base

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  Cade Grayson stirred underneath the thin sheet. Army-issued sandpaper never felt so good. Compared to the previous six nights, this one might as well have been spent at the Ritz Carlton, or Sandals in Jamaica. He slept soundly, all the way through, without a cameo appearance or even the perceived smell of one stinking corpse--real or imagined--invading the san
ctuary of some much needed REM sleep.

  Cade was in the company of his wife Brook and daughter Raven for the first time in many days, surely the impetus allowing the weary operator to shut down so completely. He stretched and yawned, Brook’s scent gracing the covers blessing him with a Zen-like calm.

  A series of loud raps on the outside door wiped away any escapist thoughts, bringing Cade back to reality.

  “Who is it?” he yelled, hoping he would be able to shoo him or her away without opening the door.

  “Airman Davis, I’m here to see Captain Grayson.”

  Cade rubbed his eyes and plowed his fingers through a bad case of bed head. It was going to be tough to stand before the green E-2 with a straight face--especially after the ruse he had pulled on the naive young man less than twenty-four hours ago. Also, being called Captain was going to take a while to get used to. He’d never had any aspirations of climbing rank and serving as a paper warrior in the Pentagon. All Cade Grayson wished to do was serve his country honorably and follow orders. He couldn’t bring himself to believe that he had said yes to President Valerie Clay. She knew exactly how to angle her request, she simply appealed to his patriotism to get him to come back to the Unit.

  Cade replayed the President’s words in his head. “I need you... in fact, what’s left of your country needs you.” The last part was all she needed to say to reel the former-Delta operator back into the fold. Cade shook his head, erased the hangdog look from his face, and invited the visitor in.

  The E-2 offered a crisp salute to the man he had earlier assumed held a much higher rank than captain.

  “What can I do for you, Airman Davis?”

  “May I have permission to speak freely, Sir?”

  “Shoot,” Cade said, trying to decide if he should apologize to the young man or leave it alone.

  “You were a civilian and you passed yourself off as someone you weren’t. Major Nash won’t let me live it down... she thinks it’s funny but I don’t. Why did you lead me on?”

  The operator admired the kid’s candor and instantly regretted taking advantage of him. “Consider it a free lesson. Never assume anything; a lot of good Americans have lost their lives since the world went to shit assuming that their already dead family member would never take a bite out of them. Assuming that the situation would improve and the government was going to save them. Assuming that help would ride in on a white steed named FEMA and save their ass. I’m only elaborating because I was already contemplating making amends to you. I had a very good reason to use you to fetch those men for me.” The temperature seemed to drop in the room as Cade held his steely gaze on the shorter airman. Then, in an easy tone while offering his hand, he uttered two words that he rarely had to use: “I’m sorry.”

  The airman quickly pumped Cade’s hand. “Apology accepted. There’s a briefing scheduled shortly. The President, Colonel Shrill, Major Nash, and General Desantos will all be in attendance.” Davis glanced at the Timex on his wrist. “I have orders to make sure you’re present and there are only ten minutes before you have to be there.”

  Cade retrieved the folder stamped Top Secret, donned his cover, and followed his escort out the door.

  The E-2 moved with a purpose. Cade had a hunch the airman’s sense of urgency was directly related to the classified dossier that Major Nash had dropped into his lap the day before. The implications spelled out within only strengthened the decision he had made. Welcome back to the teams... sucker! Cade admonished himself.

  He stayed on Airman Davis’ heels, easily matching the shorter man’s stride. The two wove their way through the internal corridors crisscrossing the expansive base, traversed a once manicured swath of now knee high grass and entered the nondescript two story structure that housed the 50th Space Command.

  Chapter 5

  Outbreak - Day 8

  Viscount Arms parking garage

  Denver, Colorado

  Wilson had no idea which SUV had belonged to his dead neighbors; to him they all looked alike. “Do any of you know which vehicle belongs to Angela and Saul... the couple that lives in 905?” All he received were blank looks and heads wagging side to side. He examined the thick microchip embedded key and turned it over in his palm. There were no markings to indicate what kind of vehicle it belonged to.

  “Why don’t you just hit the panic button?” Sasha said, pulling a Lucy van Pelt and doling out her five cents’ worth of advice.

  “I don’t even want to take the chance and accidently set off the alarm with this thing,” Wilson answered. “The blaring horn, even if it sounded for only a second, would let them know we’re in here.” Then he addressed the others crowding around him, “Be very quiet...” He held up the alarm fob for all to see. “Do not sound the car alarm... use only the key to unlock your cars.”

  Wilson canvassed the garage, testing the key in every vehicle. It seemed like everyone in Colorado drove an SUV, and the Viscount garage was full of them. He had checked all but three of the SUV type vehicles: a Kia Sportage, a Jeep Liberty, and a huge Black Suburban remained. Wilson knew beggars couldn’t be choosers, but he was hoping for something bigger than the Kia or Jeep to run the gauntlet, so he bypassed them and approached the bigger SUV. He held his breath and tentatively slid the key into the door handle. His silent prayer had been answered; the shiny black Chevy Suburban had indeed belonged to the yuppies. Wilson climbed in and sat in the driver seat, waiting for his sister to load her “luggage” before starting the rig. The SUV was enormous inside and out. I hope Saul left us a full tank of gas, he thought before he started the big vehicle.

  Wilson kissed the photo of his mom and gently placed it in his shirt pocket next to his heart. Then he started the SUV and listened to the engine’s throaty rumble. Out of habit he reached up to adjust the rearview mirror, but quickly recoiled the moment he eyed the pink baby shoe swaying back and forth. Then he noticed the Graco car seat; it looked lonely, lost in the expanse of the vacant back seat. He said a quick prayer for the little girl upstairs. A tear traced his cheek as he realized Sarah would never again feel her parents’ warm loving embrace. So much life had been lost because of the scourge sweeping the United States. He dried his face and let his eyes linger on his little sister. Wilson strengthened his resolve by telling himself there was no way on earth that he was going to let a fucking microbe do any more damage to his family.

  Like racehorses at the Kentucky Derby, the survivors’ four vehicles idled, waiting for the gate to rise so they could escape from Denver.

  Wilson hadn’t been joking when he said the passengers would be expected to disengage the garage door. “Pull the pins, ladies!” he hollered.

  Megan and her friend, Wilson still couldn’t recall her name, pulled the release pins, and started the metal gate on its upward journey.

  Wilson tried hard to ignore the baby shoe and focused only on the rear view mirror as he watched Megan get back into the Toyota Tacoma driven by her husband. Behind them, what’s-her-name rejoined her boyfriend in the white compact car.

  Ted was in the driver’s seat of his blue Subaru Forester. William, sick and useless, was sprawled in the reclined front seat.

  The black Suburban rocked subtly on its suspension as Sasha swayed anxiously on the edge of her seat. Wilson chewed his fingernails and watched the gate slowly disappear into the ceiling. When it finally cleared the middle of the windshield he tromped the accelerator. The roof rack atop the three-quarter ton Suburban scraped the gate as it raced up the incline to street level and took flight. Wilson didn’t know that the horsepower-to-handling ratio of the Suburban was extremely lopsided, suffering excessively on the maneuverability side of the equation; furthermore, he had never driven anything with more balls than his six cylinder lipstick-red Mustang which his friends called a girlie car.

  “Slow down, slow down, slow down...” Sasha chanted. She had a death grip on the grab handle near her head, and when the zombies came into view she stopped the mantra and began to hyperventilate.


  The big rig left the ground for a second or two, attained a cruising altitude of six inches, and then landed slightly sideways, slapping three of the walkers to the pavement. Yellowed puss and gray brain matter streaked the truck from the b-pillar all the way back to the taillights. Wilson, gripped by panic, stabbed the brake pedal. The SUV’s anti-lock device pushed back against his foot, further confusing him. The crunch of bone, gristle, and muscle resonated through the floorboards as the fallen creatures were ground into the road. The slimy, brownish-gray mess spit out by the Goodyear radials bore a strong resemblance to liver pâté.

  After the truck lurched to a near stop, Wilson quickly inventoried his situation: only a handful of walkers occupied the road in front of the slow rolling Suburban, and one lone female zombie clawed at the passenger window, smearing more viscous fluids along the tempered glass.

  Sasha shrieked and lunged towards Wilson, nearly crawling into his lap.

  “Calm down. I can’t hear myself think!” Wilson shouted to be heard over her hysterics. “We have to wait for the others... we need to stick together!” His eyes darted between the open road ahead, the garage, the girl zombie loping alongside, and the condensed cityscape reflected in the rearview mirror.

  After a few agonizingly drawn out seconds the Tacoma 4x4 nosed out of the garage and little by little inched across the sidewalk, followed by the white car, with the Subaru bringing up the rear.

  Wilson gingerly pressed the gas pedal, urging the rig forward. One more glance in the rearview confirmed that all three vehicles were lined up behind him. “Oh shit!”

  “What’s wrong now?” Sasha asked nervously. Her eyes were riveted on the zombie limping alongside trying to keep pace with the creeping Suburban. Every so often its brittle fingernails would skitter and tink on the glass, causing the short hairs on Sasha’s arms to stand at rigid attention.