In Harm's Way: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  “Breckenridge is overrun?” Wilson said sadly. “That was my favorite ski hill,” he muttered under his breath. He stared through the windshield wishing all of this were just a bad dream. Far ahead, on the horizon, he glimpsed two moving beams of light stabbing towards the heavens. It looked like a couple of white light sabers cutting the rapidly darkening sky. “Mister Pug. Did you see that... the lights up ahead?”

  The driver tore his eyes from Sasha’s bare legs and stared straight ahead. “No son, I missed it. If you spot it again let me know,” he answered sheepishly. “And son... you can call me Pug. Mister just makes me feel old.”

  If the shoe fits, Wilson thought. He didn’t know what it was but he was beginning to get a strange feeling about this guy.

  Chapter 19

  Outbreak - Day 8

  National Elk Refuge

  Jackson Hole, Wyoming

  “They’re aware of us now. I recommend we wrap this up,” said Ian Bishop, former Navy SEAL, and current head of Spartan International, which was the private army funded and now deployed by the Guild.

  “Please wait... I would like to finish my brunch first,” Christian said as he plunged a dainty sterling silver spoon into his three minute egg, scooped out a dollop of nearly firmed yolk and moaned in delight. “Bring me more champagne,” he ordered, waving the crystal flute in Ian’s personal space, his little finger at attention in a display of aristocratic savior-faire as he danced the glass back and forth in the air.

  The wind shifted, bringing with it the foul odor of rotten flesh.

  The muscular warrior pressed the binoculars to his face and slowly panned the entire length of the perimeter fence to be sure none of the creatures were close enough to pose a threat. Then he pulled the Dom from the ice bucket and, in a ritual he had seen Christian’s now dead assistant perform countless times, he dried the water rivulets from the bottle before refreshing the champagne. To Ian it was becoming clear that his boss was totally and irrevocably drunk with power. The Dom Perignon only made his actions harder to predict. Ian couldn’t fathom why the man wanted to take his meal at the edge of the largest elk refuge in North America in the midst of the majestic Grand Tetons while fully surrounded by zombies, but he was used to following the man’s sometimes eccentric orders and he did so without hesitation.

  “Take all of this and leave us,” Christian barked at his personal chef while making a sweeping gesture with his hands. Ian noted the sudden mood swings had become more frequent and intense. In the years he had been involved with the Guild and worked for Mr. C he had also grown used to putting up with his boss’ minor vacillations in temper. It could be stress from the myriad things Mr. C could no longer control, he thought, so he filed it away to be pondered at a later date.

  Tran cleared the china and service with a quiet efficiency learned from years of working for the billionaire king maker. Then he carefully folded the starched linen tablecloth and stowed the folding teak table, along with the dirty dishes, in the back of the Dark Green Range Rover.

  The head of the Guild called for his chef.

  With his head hanging slightly, the tiny Asian man returned and stood silent before the taller silver-haired man. He was fighting a losing battle to remain standing. The looming anxiety attack pressed against his lungs. His racing heart pounded against his sternum, fighting to escape like a caged animal.

  “Thanks to you Tran, the eggs were exquisite as always.”

  The chef regained his composure, stuck out his chin, and with great relief manufactured the biggest toothy smile he could muster, yet he still kept quiet. The help were never to speak to Mr. C unless they were ordered to do so. Tran let his gaze wander over his boss’ shoulder and fall on what remained of Fredrick. The Scandinavian-born man was once a handsome thirty-year-old, with fair skin, blue eyes and dirty blond hair. The bloated zombie used to be first assistant to Mr. C... until he spoke without permission. Tran recognized Fredrick, but not any of the other monsters on the far side of the fence, but he did know how they ended up in there. Every single one of them had done something to cross Mr. C--who had seemingly become angrier by the day. Tran wondered if the old man was host to a brain tumor and secretly wished it were true.

  There were over one hundred “examples” milling around, and as the days wore on and more people decided they didn’t like being forced to stay in Jackson against their will, the number of zombies populating the elk refuge swelled. The main road passed close by so the living dead on the refuge grounds became a dire warning reminding everyone in Jackson to toe the line.

  One day after the Guild’s private jets landed and the Spartan army rolled into Jackson Hole, a handbill was posted at the town’s square, a small park festooned with towering arches constructed entirely from the elk antlers that had been collected over the years from off of the ground inside the refuge. Spelled out on the official decree from the Guild were the rules which were many and unreasonable. The exodus began the next morning. The bodies of those bold enough to try to leave began piling up moments later. A bullet to the brain had been a proven deterrent against defectors until recently.

  “Mr. Tran. For dinner I would like Beef Wellington. And please decant the best Bordeaux in the cellar. A brunette for after dinner would be appropriate, don’t you think?”

  Tran nodded.

  Once again Christian waved the man away.

  “Mister Bishop, I have a strong suspicion that you are curious why I chose this location to dine alfresco.”

  “I’d be lying to you if I said that it hadn’t crossed my mind,” Bishop divulged. He knew Christian’s intuition was legendary and the main reason he had risen to power. Ian also had a niggling feeling his boss was a mind reader.

  “I know you don’t make it a habit to lie to me Ian... do you?” Christian said in an accusatory tone.

  “No sir.”

  “Good to know. I’m going to get down to brass tacks here. Jarvis swept the house for bugs and he found one in nearly every room. There were two in the boardroom and whoever planted them has been privy to all of our business. I trust the other members of the Guild about as far as I could throw them. I know that’s a broad brush stroke... I get that.” Christian stopped to gather his thoughts and maybe reign in his words. Screw it, he thought. “Ian, I need a real assessment of our situation. This plan of ours was supposed to be enacted after the collapse of society. Our members each had their respective parts of the country conditioned and ready for complete takeover. I’m worried. Although we only have a few hundred survivors to keep tabs on here in Jackson... the mere fact that they are survivors make them nearly impossible to subjugate. The sheep that we were going to rely upon to do our bidding after the collapse are all dead and hungering to eat us. I don’t mean here. You’ve done a stellar job of cleansing Jackson Hole of the infected... and so far your campaign against defectors has been effective. Still, we must presume that the other Guild members are not going to have as easy a go of it.” His eyebrows inched up.

  It was Ian’s cue to speak. “You are dead on about the other Guild members. I had reservations and I did let you know early on that the ex-Presidents were going to be a problem. They are used to being coddled inside of their respective bubbles. I don’t think any of them have the patience to ride this out without infighting or doing something really stupid.” Before he continued Ian paused in case his boss had something new to add, then went on. “I feel strongly that we should exclude the rest of the Guild from our spoils of war, if you will. And under no circumstances should they reap any rewards from our Minot mission.”

  Mr. C cleared his throat and downed the last of the warm champagne in his glass. With no place to set the flute he instead angrily hurled it at the living dead. “I had that executive decision made before a single one of those trucks left this town,” he said with a smug, know-it-all look on his face.

  Bishop nodded but silently called bullshit on the lie.

  Fredrick hissed as if he were part of the conversation and i
n total agreement. The pallid abomination’s Polo shirt was hopelessly snagged on the rusty barbed wire fence.

  The leader of the Guild entered into a staring contest with the putrefying corpse. Realizing he had no chance of winning this one, Christian extended his hand, palm up, in Ian’s direction. “Give me your weapon.”

  Ian warily eyed the gathering zombies and reluctantly unclipped his carbine from its center point sling, then passed it to his silver-haired boss.

  “Hand me your sidearm please,” Mr. Christian ordered, sounding more than a little annoyed.

  Slightly relieved that he didn’t have to relinquish his M4, but without saying a word, Ian removed his semi-auto pistol and handed it over.

  The Guild leader stepped over a volcano-sized mole hill, dodged a pile of droppings from some four legged animal, and approached the rubbernecking ghoul. “Fredrick... what is it going to take for you to learn to keep your mouth shut?”

  The zombie lunged against the fence, arms outstretched, bony fingers kneading the air as an eerie mournful hiss escaped from its leathered mouth.

  Christian wasted no time. He shot Fredrick in the forehead at point blank range, experiencing great satisfaction as his twice dead assistant fell stiffly to the grass. Gray matter oozed from the fist-sized exit wound while black congealed blood leaked out of the puckered divot up front. “That’s more like it, my little chatterbox.” Christian returned the borrowed pistol to his head of security. Temporarily distracted by a nagging fly, he moved his head side to side like a sparring boxer, trying to keep it from settling on him. “Where were we before I was so rudely interrupted?” Christian prompted Ian.

  “You said that you wanted my opinion... but first I think we should get inside the vehicle,” Ian gently urged as he stole another glance at the gathering zombies. The former SEAL was afraid of no man, but the walking dead on the other hand caused a certain amount of anxiety to well up in him. If it were his decision, instead of keeping corralled zombies to serve as an example to would be defectors, he would have had women and children nailed to crosses in the town square. Yes, he thought, crucified innocents would keep them all in line.

  Black clouds of buzzing flies accompanied the living dead as more corpses began to push up against the rickety fence.

  Fredrick, eyes wide and mouth open, continued his eternal staring contest as his comrades unwittingly trampled his supine form into the muddy field.

  ***

  Tran sat motionless, relegated to a patch of damp grass, eyes closed, while his boss and the assassin lounged in total comfort inside the SUV. He said a Hmong prayer to ward off the monsters of his nightmares and waited patiently, with a calm sense of serenity, for this dangerous time to pass.

  “There’s no need to worry about listening devices in this vehicle. I just picked it out from the dealership this morning; there are only ten miles on the odometer. I must admit I do find it intoxicating being able to take anything I need, anytime I want to.” Ian suddenly felt foolish for saying those words to a billionaire--especially to his boss--a man that was already used to having anything he wanted, anytime he wanted it. He collected his thoughts for a moment. “First things first: there can’t be any of those things walking around... ever. Let me worry about keeping the citizenry in check.”

  “As you wish Ian. Do continue.”

  That was easy, Ian thought. “I propose we keep our cards close to our chest as far as the Minot missions are concerned,” he said, wondering how long it was going to take his very astute boss to catch the cat that just jumped out of the bag.

  His boss perked up. “Missions? You just said you didn’t lie to me... but you were keeping this from me Ian.” Christian steepled his fingers and parked them on his chin, all the while seeming to glare into Ian’s soul. “And that’s the same thing as lying. I’m disappointed in you...”

  Ian interrupted his boss; he didn’t want to give him enough time to nurture his budding resentment. “As soon as Jarvis told me about the first set of listening devices I decided to send a team of my most trusted operators to bring back a ghost shipment--just for insurance. I’m sorry Boss... I take full responsibility. It was all in the name of operational security that I withheld the backup mission from you. For what it’s worth, at the time I didn’t know how secure the compound was or who was listening.” Ian’s stomach clenched as he mentally readied himself for a double barreled blast of fury from his boss.

  “It does give me pause. Caesar had his detractors in the Senate and ultimately he was done in by those closest to him. I will not suffer the same fate. If it happens again you will be fed to them,” Christian said, stabbing a finger at the zombies.

  “You have my word Boss,” Ian said as he felt his chest tighten and he tried to pull his eyes away from the creatures.

  Robert Christian thought, for a brief second, that he detected fear in Ian Bishop’s usually emotionless eyes. He had a knack for remembering people’s weaknesses and archiving them for future use. If Mr. Bishop ever stepped out of line again he knew exactly how he was going to punish the man, and it was not going to be pretty.

  “Mr. Christian, why don’t you carry a pistol?” Ian asked.

  “Ian my boy, you carry my pistol,” Christian answered with a detached faraway look on his face.

  Chapter 20

  Outbreak - Day 8

  Schriever AFB, Quarantine and Research Tent

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  The steady whirring from the centrifuge masked the ever-present background hiss of the large fans working to keep the environment clean and the tent under positive pressure. On the counter, a large glass beaker sat atop a Bunsen burner; the honey colored liquid inside roiled from the blue flame flickering underneath.

  Fuentes had been explicit when requesting the specific equipment for his thrown together laboratory, and the soldiers from Fort Kit Carson, without regard for their own safety, ventured into the city to fill his shopping list. They had delivered in full. Even without the moving corpse the lab could be easily mistaken for something out of a horror movie. The only props needed to complete the picture were a tesla coil spitting electric sparks and an insane scientist running to and fro--the bespectacled, wiry Doctor Sylvester Fuentes nearly filled the latter part.

  To make it easier for the doctor and his much taller and much more beautiful assistant, Jessica Hanson, to work on both specimens at the same time, Fuentes had arranged the bodies so that they were lying face up on stainless steel tables only a few feet apart. Although the infected were immobilized with the kind of thick leather straps originally designed to keep the insane and unruly inmates in control, only the Asian zombie writhed, snapping and hissing, whenever Fuentes or Hanson came anywhere near him. The second man, an agent for the Department of Homeland Security, didn’t show the usual signs of reanimation. Although the color of his face was ashen and wax like, his chest still rose and fell with a slow steady tempo and a heart monitor beeped out a slow cadence.

  A stark white sheet draped the man from the waist down while the fabric around his feet and ankles was dotted and streaked crimson where his blood had seeped through.

  “The decomposition of the Alpha isn’t accelerating as rapidly as we thought it would Doctor. It’s been what?” Jessica ticked off the days since the outbreak with her fingers, stopping at the middle finger of her right hand. “It’s been eight days and the muscle and tendons still look like they were excised from a nearly fresh corpse...” She wore a pained look, staring at Fuentes through her plastic face shield, waiting patiently for his input.

  “That worries the hell out of me because it shoots holes in my nine month theory,” Fuentes said. “And since every attempt at a proactive immunization has already failed, the antiserum has got to work. If it doesn’t then we are at a dead end.”

  Jessica grimaced.

  “That was a bad choice of words and I’m sorry,” Fuentes said softly as he fished an Oreo from the pocket of his lab coat. “Did you determine if he really was
bitten? We need to be certain because we can’t rely on assumptions alone. The word of his fellow agents or the aircrew that brought him here doesn’t mean a thing. We cannot, in good conscience, use that man as a guinea pig--unless we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he is infected.”

  Jessica cleared her throat before answering. “I examined his legs and couldn’t find a definitive point of entry. Mostly he’s covered with deep scratches on his lower extremities. One wound on the top of his foot could have been from a bite, but I dismissed it because he had shoes on when he arrived.”

  “Check the shoe. If there is a puncture mark going all of the way through then I think we should take a chance and test the first sample on him,” Fuentes reasoned.

  “When did the people who brought him in say he was supposedly infected?” Jessica inquired.

  “Hours ago, but he’s a big boy... I’d venture a guess at two-fifty at least. Even for a slow burn--this one shows longevity,” said Fuentes.

  Jessica proceeded to go through the pile of clothes to get to the discarded shoes. She tossed his lightweight black windbreaker aside, the letters DHS stenciled in yellow across the back. A pair of Levis, the denim on both legs shredded and bloody, was tossed unceremoniously atop the windbreaker. She uncovered the shoes and inspected the left one. “Shoot! I should have checked closer. There’s a perfect bite pattern and it’s evident where the canines went through the nylon tongue. Poor guy should have been wearing boots. How did he arrive here?”

  “He was brought in on a DHS Border Patrol helicopter. I talked to the pilot to try and get a feel for the conditions out there.” Fuentes removed his glasses and wiped his eyes.

  “How bad is it?” Jessica asked with a look of bereavement on her face.

  Fuentes sat down heavily and watched his last ounce of hope go round and round in the centrifuge. “The pilot didn’t know much, but one of the Homeland Security guys told me--off of the record--he even made me promise not to repeat this...” Fuck him though, Fuentes thought. “He said that there are pockets of survivors spread out all over the United States. He also said the East Coast is a fuckin’ blood bath... his words, not mine. The most depressing news though... he said that conditions are really bad south of Springs. New Mexico, Arizona and on into California... the infected are overwhelming the last of the living.”