In Harm's Way: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Daymon heaved his two bags of “potatoes” into the stretched golf cart and strategically chose a seat behind the driver. His early morning covert excursion had left him little time for sleep. On top of that, he had a feeling he might be coming down with a bug, and after taking a dip in the dead pool he hoped it wasn’t the Omega bug.

  Duncan talked the airman’s ear off as they traversed the base, passing a number of massive hangars. All manner of fixed wing aircraft were parked inside or arranged in clusters on the edge of the tarmac, some in various stages of maintenance. Apparently Whipper’s office was somewhere between Timbuktu and Madagascar. They had been travelling so long even Duncan had grown tired of talking--a very rare occurrence.

  They stopped in front of an oversized hangar filled with a mishmash of civilian aircraft.

  The sensation of the cart stopping woke Daymon. “Looks like a junkyard... are we here to see someone about a chopper or is Fred Sanford gonna drive us to Idaho?” he quipped.

  Wow, the kid has seen Sanford and Son, Duncan thought. Impressive.

  “The First Sergeant’s office is through that yellow door,” the airman informed Duncan. Then he asked, “Do you need me to wait around for you?”

  “Thank you son... but no, it’s the end of the line for us,” Duncan drawled.

  The airman nodded an affirmative, turned a one-eighty in the Cushman, and went about his way.

  “After you, Sir,” Daymon said, deferring to the older man. In reality he wanted nothing to do with procuring their transportation--whatever that entailed.

  “I don’t like your tone of voice, young man. Did it ever occur to you that this old fart might be able to kick your scrawny ass?” Duncan said, only half joking, as the “odd couple” walked towards Whipper’s office.

  Although he had a zinger locked and loaded, Daymon wisely held his tongue.

  Duncan rapped on the pockmarked yellow door.

  “Who is it?” a gruff voice sounded through the closed door.

  “Name’s Duncan... Duncan Winters,” he said, his mouth nearly kissing the metal door. “I’m looking for First Sergeant Whipper.”

  The door opened inward before Duncan could stand straight. He appeared to be bowing to the rotund man clad in grease-stained coveralls.

  “And how might I be blessed to make your acquaintance Mr. Winters...and friend?” the man said as he craned his head to inspect Daymon, who was trying to remain inconspicuous despite his exotic appearance and the half a foot height advantage he had over Duncan.

  “You’re Whipper?” Duncan said, slightly taken aback. He had never seen such a high ranking grease monkey before.

  The mechanic displayed his stained hands. “I was still of the Whipper clan the last time I checked. So the uniform isn’t appropriate for my rank, huh?” the first sergeant asked drily.

  “Just caught me by surprise, that’s all.” Duncan handed over the hand written requisition order and added, “General Desantos sent me.”

  Whipper snatched the piece of paper and scrunched up his hawkish nose, which was perched crookedly on his ruddy face, bracketed by closely spaced pale blue eyes. A half-moon of wispy white hair reached for the sky. The Fred Sanford assumption wasn’t far off, Duncan thought, trying not to pass judgment but failing horribly.

  Daymon watched silently as the funny looking fella scrutinized the piece of legal paper.

  After a few seconds of reading, the first sergeant looked Duncan and Daymon up and down. After seeming to come to some sort of decision, he gestured toward the door. “Follow me,” he said.

  As they walked, Whipper explained why he was in the trenches getting his hands dirty. Most of the men and women that were responsible for keeping the birds mission ready lived in Colorado Springs. There were a few airmen on base that Saturday, and only a very small percentage of the personnel living off base returned after the bug hit and the lock downs were ordered.

  “Human nature, I guess,” Whipper said. “If I would have been in their shoes... can’t honestly say that I wouldn’t have done the same dang thing.”

  The first sergeant led them through the open hangar. They emerged on the other side amidst the cluster of multi-colored civilian aircraft. “There she is.”

  The navy blue helicopter was spattered with evidence of a prolonged Z attack. Silver smears resembling slug tracks criss-crossed the lower half of the fuselage and greasy handprints clouded the cockpit glass. The helo bore the markings of the U.S. Department of Homeland Security, complete with a gold stripe painted front to back.

  “What happened to the aircrew?” Duncan asked.

  “I can’t be certain. There were six people aboard: four DHS agents, the pilot, and his co-pilot. At least one of the Department of Homeland Security agents was infected. A slow burn... he made it here still breathing like one of us, but I assume he turned in quarantine. The rest of the men are probably helping out here on base... not running away from responsibility.”

  Duncan ignored the obvious jab. “Thanks Sergeant. We’ll take her.” He paused in thought for a tick. “How are the rotors? What I’m getting at, judging by the dead people juice all over the fuselage, it has obviously been through the wringer... were there any blade strikes that you are aware of? Believe it or not, I’ve had to ride one of these to the ground recently and my back is still feeling the effects.”

  Daymon had somewhat successfully buried the helicopter crash in his subconscious until Duncan had to go ahead and rehash it. Daymon broke his silence and nervously asked, “Is this thing going to get us to Idaho?”

  “Take it or leave it, gentlemen. As you can see,” Whipper raised his soiled hands, palms upturned, “I’ve got my hands full keeping the transports and tankers in the air. Schriever is getting low on food and the soldiers taking care of the Z’s downtown need all of the resupply drops that we can give ‘em. Those missions need aircraft that have been properly attended to. So to answer your question honestly... I don’t know. I really do not want to allocate the amount of fuel that you’re going to need ... but orders are orders.” The Sergeant balled up the handwritten note bearing the General’s orders and tossed it on the tarmac, watched the wind propel it bouncing and tumbling down the runway, and then turned and walked away without saying another word.

  “What an a-hole,” Daymon whispered.

  “I can see where he’s coming from and I can’t blame the guy,” Duncan said as he walked around the ship, visually inspecting the moving parts--especially the all-important rotor blades, being very careful not to touch the dried human detritus clinging to it.

  Daymon asked, “Will this one stay in the air?”

  “Good to go,” Duncan said as he hauled himself into the pilot’s seat.

  Daymon shot the old aviator a worried look and entered the cockpit as well. What are the odds of us going down again? he asked himself as a thousand pounds of apprehension and an equal amount of worry weighed down on his shoulders.

  The inside of the Black Hawk showed no signs of the violence wrought on the outside. Without the litters and medical lifesaving gear, the cabin of the DHS Border Patrol helo was more spacious than the National Guard Medevac bird Duncan had crash landed smack dab in the middle of I-25 the day before.

  Daymon stowed all of their gear and weapons in the passenger area and retrieved two flight helmets before returning to the co-pilot’s seat.

  Duncan inspected his new bird. The cockpit of the Border Patrol helicopter was slightly different than the military Black Hawk he had gotten used to. He was relieved to find that the flight controls were identical and the switches and gauges were in roughly the same place. The Black Hawk definitely wasn’t a U.S. military bird but it did have external fuel tanks attached under the stubby wings, and without them Duncan knew the bird didn’t have the range to deliver them to Idaho let alone all of the way to his little brother’s compound in Eden.

  After taking a few moments to get acquainted with the dials and gauges Duncan started the engine. “So far so good,
” he said winking at his “co-pilot.” The helicopter strained and shimmied as the engine collected rpms. When he spooled the turbines up to near maximum power the rotors suddenly bit into the air. “Hold on to your cookies,” Duncan said, poking fun at the nervous ashen-faced passenger to his left.

  “Here we go again. I’m stuck with Mister Stand-Up Comedian himself.” Daymon took a few deep breaths to calm his stomach from the effects of the hurried take off. “You know this just doesn’t seem the same without the other Gomer Pyle here to order me around.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll boss you around in his stead,” Duncan assured the big crybaby.

  Daymon looked at the aviator from behind his purloined sunglasses. “I respect the dude... but I still resent the other “Gomer” for putting his gun in my face.”

  “Cut the other “Gomer” a break. In all reality Cade is more “Mitch Rapp” than your garden variety soldier, which I am proud to call myself, and I know there are things he’s done, in total anonymity, that you and I have benefitted from in spades. And I guaran-god-damn-tee you,” Duncan butchered every syllable, “that kid will never toot his own horn about it. There ain’t no Freedom of Information Act anymore Daymon, and only a select handful of people will ever be privy to the things he has done above and beyond the call of duty.” Duncan flicked some switches and made a slight course adjustment and then continued. “I’ve got a good feel for people and assessing the content of their character. Cade’s a man of his word. And in the week plus that I’ve known him he hasn’t let me down. Honoring one’s word--that became a lost art in the final ten or fifteen years of normal. Shit, just plain old honor about disappeared--that’s one thing you can’t instill or train someone to practice once they’re already set in their ways. Cade’s one of those guys, like an old Blue Tick hound, once you’re friends... it’s for life. Don’t muck it up... allies like him don’t come around very often.”

  “I started to warm to the man--after he put the Glock away. To be honest with you, old man, I’ve been cursed with a long memory. I’m like a country squirrel--I never forget where I stash my nuts,” Daymon said, his usually emotionless face exhibiting a wan smile.

  Unfortunately, Duncan’s twisted sense of humor kicked in. In his mind’s eye he could see the man in the co-pilot seat trying to find a safe place to hide the family jewels. He chuckled at the visual.

  Daymon pondered the southern gentleman’s words of wisdom while the ground chopped by. “He came through with this bird--got to give him that. I feel dumb even asking.” He raised his hands in a sign of surrender. “Who the eff is Mitch Rapp?”

  Duncan rummaged in his go bag, extracted a thick novel, and tossed it to Daymon. “You’ll meet Mitch Rapp in there, read it when you find some time.”

  The helicopter shuddered. Some kind of warning chime began to sound in both men’s helmets.

  Daymon glanced up at the multitude of flashing colored lights. He could have sworn they were telling him to “kiss his ass goodbye” in Morse code. One helicopter crash is one too many in a man’s lifetime, he thought. Then it dawned on him that he didn’t even know Morse code.

  Duncan tapped one of the gauges and, coincidence or not, the chiming along with the blinking lights ceased.

  “Tell me son, how are you feeling--still a little green? Any old football injuries bugging you?” Duncan inquired, totally ignoring the helicopter’s hiccup with a cavalier, out of sight out of mind, attitude. He was prying to see if Daymon would talk about his wounds.

  “I’m feeling green now that I know this thing is probably held together with baling wire and boogers. What... uh... are the chances of us surviving another crash landing?” Daymon asked, evidently concerned because his voice was now an octave higher.

  Duncan raised a fist, and one at a time, he slowly extended three fingers. Then after a slight mental pause, he stuck out a fourth digit. “The chances are good, son. That Black Hawk was the fourth helicopter to fall off of my ass, so I think it’s safe to say that you’ve got a ways to go before Mister Death on his pale white horse comes a calling.”

  “Remember, I was on Black Hawk Down the other night,” Daymon said. “Fill me in on your first three helicopter mishaps.”

  “They were all anomalies: Huey number one, enemy fire... lucky shot if you ask me. Number two got shot out from under me. It was inevitable... I took that slick into a hot LZ to extract some Op Phoenix boys. Put it this way, I got to fight Victor Charlie, on the ground, with those brave men. Thankfully the VC lost our scent and all of us made it to another extraction point alive.”

  “And number three?”

  “Definitely not my fault! Mechanical failure led to an autorotation in enemy territory and I got to eat dinner at a remote fire base in the central highlands of Vietnam.”

  “Thanks, that totally puts me at ease,” Daymon retorted sarcastically.

  “Don’t mention it,” Duncan drawled.

  Daymon closed his eyes. It was his way of dealing with reality. “Wake me if you need anything... but if we’re in imminent danger of crash landing... don’t bother.”

  “Copy that,” Duncan said.

  Chapter 14

  Outbreak - Day 8

  Sentinel Butte, North Dakota

  It had been thirty minutes since Ari delivered Cade and Maddox to the superheated piece of rock they were now stretched out on. Cade ignored the sun beating down on his back as he watched the red ant pick at the exposed flesh between his sleeve and gloved hand. He marveled at its persistence as it worked diligently, rending a tiny piece of his flesh to take back to its queen. Soon another hunter ambled up, sniffed around, and repeated what the first insect did. This went on for a few minutes. The pain was tolerable--Cade had suffered much, much worse. The ants did serve to break up the monotony of waiting for the target to come to him. He couldn’t help noticing the way the ants kept coming back for more meat. It reminded him of the same insatiable desire for living flesh he had seen the dead exhibit.

  Sergeant Maddox shifted his body slightly. Maybe he was feeding the ants too, Cade thought. Maddox was spotting for Cade. They knew each other by reputation but had only been on a couple of operations together.

  Two clicks sounded in their earpieces just seconds before the engine noise resonated from the lee side of the steep rise in the highway stretching away from them. Cade clicked his mic two times, letting the other shooter know he was good to go.

  Both men hunkered down, flanked by two fingers of rock in between which Cade had arranged clumps of sage and grasses to fill in the center gap. He had picked the spot because of its elevation and the oblique angle to the kill zone. The hide was neither perpendicular nor parallel to the road. The suppressor affixed to the barrel of the Remington MSR pierced the foliage, pointing in the direction of the UPS eighteen wheeler blocking the road. Although Cade was sweating his ass off in the ACUs, and a drink of water sounded good, he didn’t want to risk any movement that might give away his position, so he resisted the urge to take a pull of water from his Camelback.

  The engine noises grew louder and lower in pitch. It was evident the five-vehicle convoy was climbing the rise and about to crest the top of the hill.

  Cade trained the crosshairs on the gash of blue sky where the vehicles were about to emerge. The blacktop at the road’s apex appeared to ripple; the shimmering heat waves made it look like a de-cloaking Romulan Warbird was about to materialize. The fact that he was a closet Trekkie was the only thing Cade would never admit to anyone.

  After a minute of laboring uphill, the first Hummer emerged through the thermal vortex. The helmeted gunner swept his weapon slowly side to side, covering both shoulders of the road. Cade noted that the front bumper and flat sides of the black vehicle were smeared with shiny residue, most likely accumulated from many bouts with the living dead.

  Cade momentarily scanned the area with his naked eye. Closer in, the zombies in the vicinity of the road block perked up and started marching towards the noises. As the big rigs
in the middle of the convoy came into view and started descending the hill, they used their engines’ compression to combat the steep decline and keep their brakes from overheating. The steady drawn out brrraapp from the semi trucks’ belching exhaust instantly got the attention of the remaining walkers in and around the sprawling Truck Plaza.

  Cade could see the Hummer driver’s face through the high powered scope. He appeared to be engaged in an animated conversation with the man in the passenger seat, who was also jabbering and talking with his hands. The crosshairs were parked on the driver’s forehead. Cade wished he could read lips a little better; however, he could make out a few of the words, zombie, motherfucker and shit were some of them. It wasn’t enough to draw any solid conclusions from, but he had a feeling the crew of the first truck had had enough of the walking dead for one lifetime.

  The two Ghost Hawks hovered in a standoff formation to the west where the sun would mask their approach, giving them one more unfair advantage if they needed to join the fight. Desantos and Lopez were in Jedi One-One. Captain Ronnie Gaines and another shooter from the 10th SF Group were onboard the other Ghost. Desantos’ orders for Cade and the other shooter, a 10th Special Forces soldier named Dillard, were to hold their fire until he gave the go signal with three mic clicks.

  The convoy slowed and came to a complete stop.

  Cade and Maddox waited patiently on the ridge, ready to unleash hell.

  Chapter 15

  Outbreak - Day 8

  20 Miles South of Denver

  “Mom!”

  “Caroline honey, remember we have to be quiet. The bogeyman is still out there,” Karla said in a near stage whisper.

  The kindergartener had grown tired of her mom constantly telling her to be quiet and forcing her and her brother to always be still. An adult would have had a hard time, let alone a precocious five year old. She parted the curtains in her upstairs room in order to take another look and yelled, “Mom... bring the noculars!”