In Harm's Way: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Beeson ordered his men to cease fire and quickly assessed the situation. Frantically trying to get away from the burning hulks, the other vehicles below were turning around and speeding away out of sight over the crest of the hill. “Lobo Actual, message received... let’s roll.” The road weary officer didn’t know if his response was the right one--and it was going to eat at him for a long time, but he had vowed to himself when they rolled through the horde of living dead at Camp Williams that he was going to see as many of his men to Colorado Springs safely as he could or die trying. It made him sick to his stomach that he had already let down a few of his men. They wouldn’t be going home but he was still going to write the difficult letters that every commander despised. Almost more distressing than having to write the condolence letters was the sobering reality that more than likely there wasn’t anyone left to receive the correspondence.

  ***

  It took the forty vehicles from Camp Williams fifteen minutes to file by the still burning Humvees, the heat emanating from them causing the air to shimmer and dance. Both crispy NA gunners sat frozen, fully embraced by death, looking like they had tangled with a fire breathing dragon.

  The Major decided to leave the wreckage and bodies in place as a reminder to everyone that the U.S. military was still a force to be respected.

  ***

  Beeson’s boys rolled through the town of Mack, Colorado. The business district consisted of an old fashioned drugstore/ice cream shop, a couple of uninhabited greasy spoon diners and a lonely rundown tavern--its darkened neon signs teasing the thirsty sleep-deprived soldiers with the empty promises of cold beer and fine spirits. In the blink of an eye the shadowy store fronts were behind them and the convoy was in the midst of the residential area on the east side of town.

  Major Beeson couldn’t believe the reception they were receiving from the few remaining townspeople. Thanks to the propaganda being spread by the NA soldiers, he and his men were greeted with animosity, angry sneers, and middle fingers. Thankfully the curse words and epithets hurled their way were drowned out by the noisy metal machines.

  Beeson hailed Springs on the net to inform them of his contact with the New American troops and the town folks of Mack, Colorado. Colonel Shrill in turn warned the Major about the undead herd and gave him a rundown of the impending operation meant to destroy them.

  Bone tired, hungry and nearly Winchester on ammo, the 19th SF soldiers trudged on, their final destination: Colorado Springs.

  Chapter 39

  Outbreak - Day 9

  Schriever AFB

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  Pug left the quarantine facility without so much as a backward glance, walking briskly but not fast enough to garner any undue attention from the many soldiers and airmen in uniform. His first order of business was to distance himself from the misfits whose lives he had saved--they had served their purpose--now he had to discover his.

  As Pug navigated the base, he periodically stopped to surreptitiously recon his surroundings while pretending to consult the simple map given to him after being released from the mind-numbing quarantine. After spending ninety minutes snooping around, he was fairly confident that he could move about the base on the paths least likely to be patrolled by security personnel.

  Pug found the food in the mess hall barely eatable and the civilians’ living accommodations, which were nothing but a hastily erected tent city with portable Honey Buckets for shitters and no running water, highly unacceptable. Schriever was no Embassy Suites, but hopefully, if everything fell into place, he wouldn’t have to endure this Boy Scout’s nirvana for very long.

  Earlier he had discovered two things during his brief stop in the shared mess hall: the rumor of a cure held more credence than the grumpy Sergeant had led him to believe, and then there was the minor inconvenience, coming in the form of a few hundred thousand walking dead on a collision course with Colorado Springs.

  On his way out of the mess hall he passed a bank of silent pay phones. The light blue AT&T logo reminded him of his long dead Smartphone and just how far and fast society had fallen. No more Google searches to see who starred in what inconsequential movie. No more e-mail for the masses. No more apps. No more Facebook--he didn’t even know what that was, but someone was surely going to miss it. Shit, he thought with a smirk, people are going to have to start reading paper books again.

  Pug stopped at the last phone in the line and, feigning curiosity as an airman walked by, picked up the receiver. As he did so, he scratched a two inch vertical line into the soft brick wall next to the phone’s privacy enclosure.

  He took a covert look over his shoulder and slipped the steak knife that he had just stolen from the mess hall back into his pocket.

  ***

  Pug chose an empty tent in a deserted corner of the base where hundreds of the canvas shelters had been set up in the days after Omega. By his estimation barely one-fourth of them were inhabited. To Pug it was obvious that the virus had been much more deadly and had spread throughout the population much faster than the government’s predictions. He shuddered to think how bad it had been in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. Who knows, he thought smiling, maybe I’ll get to find out. This was the man’s big break; he was finally going to be somebody and he did not want to screw it up.

  When Pug pulled back the canvas flap and stepped onto the plywood floor, memories from his youth came flooding back. The smell inside of the tent instantly reminded him of the dingy gray straight jacket with the sturdy metal buckles that he had been forced to wear whenever his foster parents wanted to play with him.

  He tossed his hooded sweatshirt on one of the many cots, unzipped his bag and retrieved the Camelback bladder. After draining off the water he slit the bladder open with the purloined steak knife. It wasn’t the sharpest tool on the base--kind of like him, he thought with a grin, but it did the trick.

  The two pieces, still wrapped in plastic, slid out easily. He had taken the heavy duty freezer bags from the dead hoop star’s house the day before and they had worked perfectly at keeping the water out.

  Pug took the bigger piece out first, unwrapped the small pistol and placed it on the taut, cold-war-era canvas cot. The six inch silencer was in the second baggie. The can spun effortlessly onto the end of the compact pistol. After placing the gun into his waistband near the small of his back he was out the door.

  ***

  Pug put one hand up to shield his eyes against the mid-afternoon sun as four noisy Chinooks followed by two smaller black helicopters thundered across the base before disappearing behind the tallest of the distant hangars.

  He turned his attention to the courtyard. The coast is clear, he thought to himself, and then he strolled nonchalantly in front of the bank of worthless payphones. A shiver rocketed up his backbone; there was an identical horizontal scratch intersecting the vertical mark he had scribed thirty minutes ago. The word was out, he thought, I have arrived.

  ***

  One hour later

  Pug wandered around in the predetermined area before he spotted the telltale white rock at the base of a withered rose bush. He bent to one knee acting like he was examining the flora, while his free hand stealthily removed the hollow aluminum spike from the soil. Right where it was supposed to be, he thought. He had just executed a perfect dead drop exchange without anyone the wiser.

  ***

  Pug took every precaution to ensure that he wasn’t followed, doubling back, stopping abruptly and even going so far as sprinting back and forth through the tent city before slipping into his chosen abode.

  You did it. The voice was back.

  Pug sat on the rock-hard cot, still sweating from stress and exertion incurred avoiding the imaginary agents. Then, after a moment basking in the glow of his success, he opened the hollow spike, unrolled the piece of paper stashed inside and paused before reading the orders. He wanted to remember what it felt like to still have his anonymity. What it was like to be able to move about without
everyone wanting to talk to him--pick his brain and ask about his exploits. The second he looked at the paper and read the words, his mission would be clear and his destiny revealed. Pug would be a rock star. Here I come to save the day, a child-like voice resounded from deep within his tortured mind.

  Chapter 40

  Outbreak - Day 9

  Schriever AFB

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  Instead of accepting a ride on the Cushman with Desantos, Gaines and Lopez, Cade opted to walk from the briefing facility to the flight line. The thought of stopping by the infirmary and saying goodbye to his family one last time crossed his mind but he quickly dismissed the idea. Instead, he used the time to clear his head and start the difficult process of compartmentalization. Raven, Brook, and the peanut-sized fetus in her womb meant the world to him, but always before he went on a mission he said solitary silent goodbyes to his loved ones, tucking all of his thoughts and feelings for them deep into his subconscious. The ritual pushed all of the fears and what ifs into the background as well, leaving him free to act solely on instinct, training and a good amount of muscle memory.

  ***

  By the time the flat black Ghost Hawks came into view he was locked down mentally and mission ready. Tice, the CIA spook, walked around the tail boom of the closer of the two SOAR choppers and greeted him with a nod and a wave. He had on his usual Detroit Tiger’s ball cap but had changed out of the military ACUs. Instead, he had on a well-worn pair of blue jeans and his ballistic vest cinched tightly over a colorful Tommy Bahama’s shirt. The man looked like he had just stepped out of a Hollywood casting call for a Magnum P.I. remake. The only props missing were a big bushy mustache and a red Ferrari 308.

  Returning the nod Cade asked, “What is it, casual Friday?”

  “No, I figured I’d dress like a spook today,” Tice said as he did a slow pirouette, showing off his getup.

  Cade wasn’t impressed. “So you’re going to stand out like a bullfighter’s cape... and you’re tagging along again?”

  Cracking a big grin and patting his pistol like he was on one big safari, Tice replied, “How in the hell could I miss out on an opportunity like this? Besides... I gotta have something interesting to tell the grandkids.”

  What bunker is your family safely tucked away in? Cade thought to himself. “So you’re sold on the cure thing huh? Gonna have a big brood and live ‘til the ripe old age of... pick a number, any number.” Cade didn’t allow him the time to answer. “That’s a pretty cavalier attitude. I, for one, am not going to let the idea of a cure take the place of vigilance... and I suggest you do the same.”

  “I’m only trying to keep my mind off of the task at hand. Nash ordered me to come along and arm the devices when it’s time. Shit... don’t get me wrong, it’s nothing but bravado and stupidity that’s holding me together, and in case you are curious... I am wearing my Depends.”

  That final crack broke the ice, causing Cade to smile. “Have you seen Desantos?”

  “He was putting his kit in the helo the last time I saw him,” Tice stated. “Hey man... I can’t wait to get into one of those sand rail jobs. Are those things as fast as they look?”

  “Faster,” Cade replied, “and if Cowboy’s driving... I hope you brought an extra pair of those Depends.”

  “Hell yeah...” the spook said enthusiastically as he walked away.

  Making his way around the Ghost Hawk, Cade was forced to step over one of the ground crew, who was laying prone, readying the bird for flight.

  “These helos need more upkeep than all of the Housewives of Beverly Hills combined,” the man said as he sensed Cade nearby.

  Cade didn’t get a chance to respond. Mike Desantos had called his name from somewhere out of sight, requesting his presence in the hangar adjacent to the tarmac.

  When Cade located Desantos the man was in the middle of the monotonous task of reloading the magazines for his MP7.

  “How many more do we need?”

  “Only six, which means we will both have ten. Three hundred rounds apiece... that oughta do it... you think?” Desantos said tongue-in-cheek.

  “If it doesn’t, then we need to go back to Q and qualify all over again.”

  Both men laughed at the notion of a thirty-five year old and a dinosaur the General’s age going through that grinder again.

  “Cade... I’ve given this a lot of thought. This is my last rodeo. I am done. Finito. No mas.”

  “Sir, if anyone in the spec-ops community... or at least what’s left of it, deserves to hang up his spurs, it’s you.”

  “Thanks for your permission... I feel better already,” Desantos said halfheartedly. He pinched the bridge of his nose and absentmindedly adjusted his tactical helmet. Somewhere outside the wire a murder of crows cawed angrily, no doubt fighting rapaciously over someone’s carcass. After an uncomfortable silence the General continued, “I had a tough decision to make and if it were fifteen months ago it would have been a no brainer.”

  Cade knew exactly where this was going.

  “I am going to recommend that Captain Gaines take over command of the Unit... he’d be a fine leader. Hell, he already is. That fucking mission to get the Alpha from Bethesda, that was a cluster fuck going in and he shoulda lost more than the seven operators. No slight on you, Wyatt, but you are still getting back up to speed.” Desantos looked his good friend in the eyes and held the gaze.

  Cade didn’t feel the need to say anything but he opined anyway. “For what it’s worth... Ronnie is the best choice for the command, Mike, no hard feelings here, friend.”

  “Well damn Wyatt, once again, I am glad that you approve,” Desantos said with a wink and then collected the magazines and his suppressed MP7 and strode purposefully towards Jedi One-One saying, “Let’s get this goat rope into the air.”

  ***

  With a thunderous cacophony the Four Chinooks lifted into the air, the whomping of their twin rotors echoing off of the prefab buildings. Special Operations LSVs, or Light Strike Vehicles, were internally stowed inside three of the dual rotor helicopters. The fourth helicopter carried a chalk of Rangers and a trio of the three hundred pound nuclear devices, strapped down safely inside of the cargo hold. The Rangers of the 75th would be available as a quick reaction force if the mission was compromised or to help secure a landing zone if a medevac extraction became necessary.

  As the Chinooks crossed the wire, the noise and rotor wash disturbed thousands of feeding blackbirds which took flight at once, momentarily blotting out the sun, wings flapping to escape the noisy metal monsters.

  “This Alfred Hitchcock moment was brought to you by Night Stalker aviation,” Ari Silver quipped as he waited a tick for the angry flock to dissipate so he could power the wasp-like Ghost Hawk into the air.

  “Mike, did I already miss the Scrabble banter?” Cade asked Desantos as his stomach started to breakdance when the helo rocketed into the air.

  “Yes... but I didn’t... and Limo is still not a word according to Durant,” Desantos answered, rolling his eyes.

  Durant flashed an enthusiastic thumbs up as Ari banked the ship hard to starboard.

  With a firm handhold on the bulkhead and looking more than a little bit green, Tice asked, “Do you guys ever get used to these G-forces?”

  “Those are not G-forces, gentlemen,” Ari said, talking over the inboard comms. “I got to ride a catapult launch off of the Reagan... in the back seat of an FA-18 Super Hornet... now those were G-forces. I quickly discovered that I was a puker.”

  “You... a puker? I would have never guessed the way you bounce us over the tree tops trying to make us toss our cookies,” Lopez intoned. “Now you know how sick I was carrying that dirty demonio up the stairs in the CDC. Madre...”

  I wonder if Lopez is ever gonna get over that, Desantos thought to himself.

  Tice hijacked the brief moment of silence. “While I have everyone’s attention, let me talk about the devices. I wanted to rig them to detonate remotely bu
t the fail safes are such that they have to be set up in place and then the codes can be inputted. These warheads were designed to be delivered on a cruise missile... so I did my best.”

  “What are the codes?” Desantos asked.

  “I made it real easy to remember in case I go down... Independence Day...” Tice waited for one of the men to ask him when it was so he could good naturedly bust someone’s balls.

  “7-4-1-7-7-6,” Maddox stated, “easy enough.”

  “No, it is not as easy as it sounds. You are not going to be able to roll the things off on the move and simply scram. The devices are in two pieces: the timers that I MacGyvered and the warhead itself. I know what I am doing... because I’ve worked around these things for a while, and even I couldn’t mate the two pieces in less than three minutes.”

  Lopez couldn’t keep quiet. “That’s a lot of time to be in the middle of a Z swarm...”

  “All the while trying to focus on the task at hand,” Cade added.

  “Best case scenario... how long will it take one of us to mate and arm the bombs?” Desantos asked.

  Tice shifted in his seat to look directly at Desantos before answering the question. “That, General, depends upon how close to the herd you want the bombs.”

  “You are the expert. You tell me. How close do they need to be placed to decimate all of the Z’s?” Desantos pressed.

  “I would have to see them up close and personal... the herd that is,” Tice stated.

  Desantos mulled over his options. He didn’t have the opportunity to gather all of the necessary info before the mission. The closer the herd got to Springs, the deadlier the fallout from any detonation would be... assuming the wind patterns worked in their favor. If the wind funneled down the valley, which was a rare occurrence, then it didn’t matter if the detonations happened in Denver or ten miles outside of Springs... they would all be irradiated. The bottom line was, they really were flying by the seat of their pants, and that is exactly why he requested the silenced special ops sand rails be brought over from Fort Carson. The 10th SF boys had been using the stealthy, heavily armed dune buggies to a great advantage on their Z clearing ops north of Springs. Getting in close and quiet would be paramount if they were going to be able to take out the entire herd of dead with just the two five-kiloton devices. Desantos decided at that moment to do a real time aerial recon of the herd. “Ari, we need to buzz the walkers before you take us to the staging area.”