A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Cade had quickly ruled out the soldiers in charge of processing and placing new arrivals in quarantine. Every one of them had passed the sniff test. That they followed the wet footsteps and took Francis into custody all but absolved them of any guilt anyway. Cade scrutinized the newer arrivals first. He interviewed the people who had entered Schriever with Francis and quickly ruled them out. Next he focused on the survivors who had entered Schriever during the initial days of the outbreak.

  With Colonel Shrill’s help Cade had narrowed down the number of civilians currently on base, excluding those with military connections, to roughly two hundred.

  “The refugees,” Shrill had said, “trickled in at first. And then we experienced a huge surge coming between days five and six of the Omega outbreak. Then there was a total dry spell with less than ten of them trickling into Schriever between days seven and the day our murderer arrived.”

  Most of the survivors, having escaped the violence in and around Colorado Springs twenty miles to the west of Schriever, had shown up outside of the base with nothing but the clothes on their backs. Unfortunately many of them were already infected from bite wounds received during their flight to safety, and sadly, those people were now buried in one of the many mass graves outside of the wire.

  With help from the base security personnel, Shrill had started vetting the roughly two hundred civilians on base, and since the government’s databases were no longer accessible the work had been tedious.

  Colonel Shrill then indicated it was all that he could do just to organize the foraging parties alone. “People have got to eat,” he’d said. His hands were more than full trying to utilize the civilian volunteers based on their skills and abilities, let alone determining who was trying to conceal their real identity.

  Cade returned to his billet as a new twenty-four, complete with a whole new clean slate, started counting down. That it was after midnight all but assured that his family would be sleeping. He just hoped that when he got up to go to the flight line for the pre-mission briefing Brook would also be awake.

  He inserted his key and then quietly opened the outside door, taking every precaution not to wake the slumbering duo inside. After the covert entry he tossed his beret atop the metal table adjacent to the door, unknowingly sending the handwritten note that Brook had left for him floating to the floor.

  Chapter 9

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Schriever AFB

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  One hour before sunup and once again sleep had proven elusive. Cade kept rehashing the Castle Rock mission in his head. Was there any way he could have saved Mike? The simple answer—no. Fate had intervened. “When it’s your time, it’s your time. The only thing you can do is prepare for the worst and hope for the best.” Those were Mike Desantos’ words, and Cade would never forget them.

  He ceased waiting for the Sandman and quietly slipped out of bed. Except for the one good night of sleep since leaving Portland, this current stretch of insomnia numbered in double digits. He didn’t need a theoretical physicist like Stephen Hawking to help him put two and two together to come to the conclusion that this current stretch of sleep deprivation was directly related to the walking dead. Hell, he had been able to shut down immediately and power sleep for hours at a stretch in the stifling heat of Iraq where bottled water nearly boiled. Or in the bone numbing cold of the Hindu Kush Mountains in Afghanistan while surrounded by fanatical killers who would cut off his head without a second thought—no problem.

  Yes, the common denominator was painfully obvious. They were seemingly everywhere and there was nothing that he could do about it.

  So with his family still sound asleep in the adjacent bunk, Cade took a seat on a wobbly Government Issue folding chair, covered his bearded face with his hands and sat in silence, jaw clenched, eyes closed. Then he began his pre-mission ritual of stuffing the distractions of family and the state of the world in which they were all struggling to survive, deep down inside himself. For Cade, this mission was about righting a wrong. Not just one wrong. Mike Desantos wasn’t the only casualty as a direct result of Pug’s actions. The small percentage of the population, not yet infected, might have eventually been saved when Doctor Fuentes finally perfected his antidote. All that hope was now forever lost. The doctor and all of his sticky notes, computer files, thumb drives—everything lost in flames—thanks to Pug’s orgy of murder and sabotage. Cade made no effort to lock away his feelings concerning Mike’s murder. He wanted those emotions as close to the surface as possible—accessible, fresh and crackling through every nerve in his body—to be extinguished only when Mike’s death was finally avenged.

  Unfortunately, killing Pug would have to wait. First and foremost on the agenda was finding the man responsible for launching the human missile on his pointless mission of death and destruction. One way or another, Cade thought, Robert Christian was going to pay.

  Shrugging away murderous thoughts, he took one final glimpse at Brook and Raven. Asleep, Brook’s face was bereft of the new granite set of her jaw. The old Brook stared at him—the mommy Brook. Yes, Cade thought, with or without him she would weather Omega just fine.

  Raven, fully eclipsed behind her mom’s blanket-clad form with her face buried between her mom’s shoulder blades, still needed to be protected from Omega’s reality. Cade supposed his daughter didn’t fully have a grasp of the odds that were stacked against her. He shuddered at the thought of what the future might look like for his Raven when she was grown. He closed his mind to the staggering numbers the dead had on their side, and the lopsided uphill battle humanity certainly faced. For now he had a job to do.

  Cade departed the Grayson quarters quietly and took in a lungful of the crisp high desert air. Then he glanced to the east, where the sky, as if ablaze, glowed like the inside of an ironsmith’s forge. Finally he looked west where Pikes Peak and the surrounding Rockies still huddled in black, not yet caressed by the rising sun. He found it hard to believe surrounded by so much beauty that just two nights ago nuclear devices had been detonated less than fifty miles away.

  Although the initial mushroom clouds hadn’t been visible immediately following the two simultaneous explosions, the debris thrown into the air lingered, and had been clearly visible for hours. As it retreated eastward depositing radioactive isotopes for tens of miles, it began to look like an aerial lava flow.

  Cade looked north and uttered a silent prayer for any survivors caught downwind who had not only the walking dead to worry about but also the slow painful death radiation poisoning promised.

  ***

  After a quick meal of sweet grits and four cups of Schriever’s finest hot brown water, Cade used his captain’s bars to requisition transportation. He then set out to collect the operators that would be accompanying him to Jackson Hole.

  Maddox and Lopez were up and ready when Cade’s Cushman came to a halt outside their billet. Somehow their internal clocks intuitively knew they were going down range.

  Tice, on the other hand, took a little bit of rousing to get up to speed.

  Cade nixed the CIA man’s usual tropical attire and ball cap. “Tactical chic is not good to go today,” he told the spook before leaving him alone in the billet to get squared away.

  A few moments later Tice emerged, squinting in the morning sun, tactical bag in one hand, M4 grasped in the other. The sometimes impatient—often times surly—yet always talkative CIA nuke specialist wasted no time before addressing Cade. “Where are we going young Captain?”

  “Best that we not discuss it in the open. I’ll brief you when we get in the air.” Cade reached between his feet and retrieved a padded black nylon bag big enough to accommodate a seventeen pound bowling ball, then handed it over as the CIA man took a seat.

  “Don’t tell me... let me guess. We’re gonna make some more big radioactive holes in terra firma... right?”

  The Cushman started rolling. Cade was no Desantos when it came to speed and cornering but he was
n’t Morgan Freeman driving Miss Daisy either. He took his eyes off of the path long enough to put everyone in peril and hollered to be heard over the whirring rubber tires. “Just look in the bag and tell me you know how to use the thing.”

  Tice eyed the five thousand dollar digital camera complete with Nikkor 200-400 mm telephoto zoom lens then replied, “Nash briefed me. This was supposed to be used as a last resort.”

  “What’s your concern?” asked Cade.

  Tice swallowed before answering. “I truly hoped it wouldn’t come to this... because we’re all going to take some major rads.” And as the word rads slipped from his lips a ball of ice formed in his gut.

  Cade stabbed the brake stopping short of the flight line and jumped from the Cushman. He gripped his SCAR, then handed Lopez, Maddox, and Tice their black kit bags before retrieving his own. “Are you gentlemen good to go?” Cade asked.

  Both Lopez and Maddox emitted a “Hooah” as they stepped to the waiting Ghost Hawk.

  “Are you sure you need me?” Tice countered. “Because if you don’t... I can stay right here and up my rad levels a little slower than you guys.” A crooked grin crossed the CIA nuke specialist’s clean-shaven face.

  “How about we drop you right on top of ground zero? You can give us an up close assessment. Maybe even provide an accurate body count. Or a pieces of bodies count,” Lopez offered over his shoulder. Pushing the CIA man’s buttons was becoming an equal opportunity, everyday occurrence for the dwindling Delta unit.

  Ignoring the ribbing, Tice replied, “I got my Depends cinched tight and my Desert Eagle cocked and locked... I’m good to go.”

  Cade approached the flight line still in awe of the technological marvels sitting on the apron. After years of riding around in the UH-60 Black Hawk, he wasn’t used to the Ghost Hawk’s silhouette, let alone its capabilities, and was still taken aback every time he saw one. The angular Jedi Rides crouched menacingly on the tarmac, their matte black skin devouring the light. Even static and powered down the GEN-3 helos looked like they were moving along at Mach-one.

  Cade recognized Ari Silver from a distance. The SOAR pilot, immersed in his pre-flight walk around, appeared totally oblivious of the approaching operators.

  “Night Stalker—” said Cade, using the official nickname of the aviators and aircrew that served in TF-160, “is she loaded and bloated?”

  Ari glanced up, his piercing hazel eyes flashed recognition as he threw Cade a quick salute. “She was empty on ammo when we came home last. Hicksy musta poured three thousand rounds into the Zs when we pulled you and...” The loss of Desantos, fresh on the aviator’s mind, momentarily caused him to choke up. “Hicks made it rain on those putrid fuckers. Whipper only had enough ammunition for half a load-out and that’s the good news,” Ari added.

  Cade’s eyes narrowed as he gripped Ari’s shoulder. “And the bad news is...”

  “First Sergeant Whipper indicated he was bingo on JP-8 for the time being. He has the remainder of his tanker fleet on forage patrol, and if all goes as planned full tankers should be wheels down tonight or tomorrow.”

  “Ari... that is bad news... how much fuel does she have aboard?”

  “Bird’s at nearly sixty percent, but I figure we can refuel somewhere on the ground. I’ll find a muni airport for us along the flight plan and a few alternates in case we encounter too many ambulatory deceased at the first option.” Ari smirked at his own play on words. “I bet if the paper pilots were still flying the Pentagon that jargon would stick.” Changing his voice to a deep baritone mimicking his idea of how a rear echelon desk weenie would sound, Ari added theatrically, “Ambulatory Deceased, that has a nice ring to it don’t you think General? Why yes General. It rolls off the tongue. I like it... make it so.”

  The newly promoted captain shook his head. “Ari...you ever consider moonlighting as a stand-up comedian?”

  “Before Pandora’s Box opened and the dead started walking that had been my retirement plan. Free beer and fried food. Up late and sleeping in. What am I gonna do now?” Ari quipped as he resumed checking the flight surfaces and wiggling moving parts. Thoroughly satisfied the Ghost was airworthy, he patted the helo’s composite skin. “Now boarding rows AA through DD. Anyone needing help with a wheelchair or walker please see a flight attendant, and a friendly reminder—no drinking in row AA.”

  “That means you Langley boy,” Lopez said, suppressing a laugh.

  Cade threw his bulging kit bag into the helo’s open door and slipped the suppressed SCAR-L SOPMOD carbine in after, then hauled his weary frame into a seat. He donned a flight helmet and plugged its coiled wire into the onboard comms jack.

  After having given the helicopter a thorough looking over, Ari and Durant loitered on the tarmac; they hadn’t yet begun their usual preflight banter and jovial ribbing. To Cade the quiet inside the helo was deafening. He closed his eyes and used the temporary lack of sensory bombardment to run the upcoming mission by his mind’s eye. This particular operation had been thrown together on the fly, and considering the possibility of a spy inside of the base, only essential personnel were allowed to attend the secret pre-op briefing. Tice had been conspicuously absent but the Delta boys and flight crew, along with Major Nash and the newly promoted General Ronnie “Ghost” Gaines, had huddled in a remote corner of the Satellite operations room and hashed out a course of action. In a normal real world operation the team would have had weeks if not months to prepare. Any buildings that were to be assaulted would have been mocked up in full scale so Cade and his men could learn the layout and run the mission over and over until they could execute it blindfolded. Normally, in an urban operation such as this, the Delta team would fast rope directly on top of their target and take immediate control through speed, surprise, and overwhelming violence of action. But for this op, the presence of Patriot surface-to-air missiles, their powerful radars guarding the sky, dictated otherwise.

  Like a couple of ninjas, Ari and Durant had silently boarded the helo, gone through their pre-flight routines and had lit the fire—all without uttering a single word.

  Mike’s death is on a lot of people’s minds, Cade thought. The pilot’s usual chitchat would have been preferable to being reminded once again of the fallen warrior.

  The familiar smell of kerosene filled the air as the Ghost Hawk’s dual jet turbines spooled up.

  In the pilot’s seat Chief Warrant Officer Ari Silver’s fingers danced over the glass touchscreen. He keyed in the GPS coordinates to the insertion point south of Jackson Hole and then inputted the multiple waypoints needed to fly NOE (nap of the earth) using the landscape’s natural contours to mask them from enemy radar.

  At the briefing Ari had been informed that Major Nash’s satellite operations officers had not been able to get a satellite parked in a geo-synchronous orbit over the mountainous city, so he would be flying without benefit of the usual real-time satellite imagery. Since he had to deliver the four-man team as close to Jackson Hole as possible he would be careful to steer clear of roads and towns the closer they got to the NA stronghold.

  To sum it up, Cade and his team would be doing exactly what they were trained to do: operate covertly and unimpeded behind enemy lines without the luxury of air cover or a quick reaction force of Army Rangers as a backstop. The four men would be left to operate down range with full autonomy.

  “We’re off,” Ari said.

  And with that the black Ghost Hawk leapt into the air—onboard a payload of rough men eager to deliver a little payback.

  Chapter 10

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Grand Junction, Colorado

  Dickless wavered in front of the window, a permanent sneer frozen on his decomposing face.

  Taryn’s former boss, Richard Lesst, who inexplicably had preferred that he be called Dick instead of his given first name, was molesting the door again. The quarter-inch thick safety glass had taken on a gray sheen due to his constant feeble attempts to get to the meat within the office still b
earing his name.

  The airport scuttlebutt was that Richard Lesst had probably earned his nickname the first time he announced himself “present” during roll call and correcting his teacher by pointing out that he preferred to be called Dick.

  Though the power had been out for more than a week, Richard Lesst’s top floor office which Taryn had been forced to take refuge in was far from dark. Ambient light streamed steadily through the wall of windows that faced the jet taxiway and the two runways beyond.

  The air inside the main terminal was rife with humidity, and riding on it was the all-encompassing stench of death. Taryn guessed that it had to be well over one hundred degrees inside, and probably a good one hundred twenty on the shimmery blacktop outside. Definitely not a dry heat, she thought. She hated hearing, “It sure is hot in Colorado” or “At least it’s a dry heat,” or any other variation of that same worn out saying nearly every Tom, Dick, and Harriett that crushed her stand for their foo foo coffee drinks thought mandatory to bleat.

  Hotter than a motherfucker outside, was more to Taryn’s liking, and if blurted ad-nauseum from the mouths of her usual clientele—she supposed she could get used to it. Hell, she thought, some frumpy schoolmarm declaring, “It sure is hotter than a motherfucker today... but at least it’s a dry heat,” in a matronly warble while ordering her skinny, half-caf, almond latte would be one to spout off about on Facebook.

  Facebook—that reminded her. It was about time to reposition the solar charger into the direct sunlight.

  If there was one thing Taryn was most proud of when discussing her personality, it was her never-ending supply of hope. For she was sure that any moment her iPhone, which was currently tethered to the glossy black panel positioned in the rectangle of sun blasting through the skylight, would come alive and start spewing sounds akin to AOL’s old tagline You’ve Got Mail. Beeps that meant she had a voice message from her family saying they were still alive and busy looking for her. Or the hollow tone alerting her that she had just received an instant message from one of her many friends who had already left Grand Junction and gone ahead to Denver hoping to get the apartment closest to campus—or as her best friend Miley had declared she was going to do two weeks ago—“Bribe someone and get us the best corner dorm room.”