A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Three men sidestepped their way through the security center heading towards the armory.

  As an afterthought Logan yelled at the retreating men, “Make sure everyone vests up. There are bound to be bad guys with guns out there—rotters don’t use wire cutters.” This has to be directly related to those fellas we killed the other day, he thought to himself. Then he remembered the bullet-riddled zombies they had left in the middle of State Route 39. Just like a trail of bread crumbs showing the way. He cursed his stupidity soundly, hoping it wouldn’t cost them their lives.

  Chapter 15

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Schriever AFB

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  Fully a day removed, Freda Nash couldn’t stop reliving the solemn service.

  General Desantos’ funeral was not the first she had attended during her twenty year career.

  A career spent working behind the scenes in one capacity or another with the 160th SOAR and the covert operators the Special Operations Aviation Regiment ferried to and from battle the world over.

  Desantos’ casket wouldn’t be the last to resonate with the impact of dirt and rock. In her mind’s eye she could see Cade, Lopez and the other shooters grieving over Mike’s final resting place in the Colorado Desert. She kept seeing the tense expression paining Annie Desantos’ face as the first volley from the twenty-one gun salute honoring her husband’s ultimate sacrifice rang out. She remembered Annie holding her newborn, Mike Junior, while her twin daughters crushed in from both sides each with a tiny arm encircling Mom’s waist. The family circling the wagons, Nash thought. What she would have given to experience that one more time.

  She removed her cover with slow deliberate movements and placed the rigid navy blue hat on its wooden perch, wedged between a C-130 model airplane and a framed photo of her and a much younger—nearly carbon copy version of herself. Frozen in a loving embrace, the two women in the picture were standing in front of an enormous white house adorned with vertical box columns, dental molding, and multi-colored stained glass.

  The petite woman unpinned the gray streaked brunette bob, releasing her shoulder length hair. Her gaze lingered on the photo which had been taken on orientation day in front of the Widney Alumni house on the USC campus—one of the best days of Freda Nash’s life save for the day the young girl in the photo had been born. It seemed like she had escorted her daughter from Colorado to the West Coast only yesterday. Yesterday in Colorado, she thought, was nothing like that warm So Cal day in late August three years ago. In fact, she wanted to forget yesterday entirely.

  Nash strode to the gray filing cabinet nestled in the corner partially obscured by an American flag. As she pulled on the top drawer, the tracks, which were in dire need of a shot of WD-40, screeched an ominous warning that seemingly implored her not to venture inside. Then a little voice in her head said, It’s after five somewhere. After a second on tiptoes, armpit deep in the top drawer, she extracted the unopened bottle of premium tequila given to her by Mike Desantos after the famous Bin Laden raid in Abbottabad Pakistan. An olive branch no doubt—since the Major had been left out of the loop on that one. Only the President, his high level cabinet officials, two drone drivers and the SEAL and Delta commandos who were conducting the raid had known who Geronimo really was.

  With an anticipatory grimace Freda slammed the drawer shut; the resulting rusty squeal warned, You’ll be sorry. In no mood to heed her own common sense she pulled three shot glasses from deep within her desk, placing them in a neat line parallel with the name plate parked atop her desktop. The smell of pure agave tickled her nose when she cracked the seal, and after filling the three shots to the brim she took a long pull from the bottle.

  While the flat screen monitor flickered to life, Nash retrieved the remote from underneath a pile of weeks’ old paperwork that would never see the inside of a filing cabinet. She thumbed play, starting the recorded feed from the Global Hawk. Since she had already watched the mission unfold live she saw no reason to revisit the entire mission from start to finish. Nash bumped the DVR to 10x speed and watched the Delta teams in their three fast attack vehicles skitter along the screen looking like cockroaches fleeing the light. “There,” she said aloud as the child zombies swarmed the FAV and proceeded to attack Mike Desantos. Trying to ignore the fateful moment, she let the DVR blaze ahead. Out of sight, out of mind, she told herself. Yeah right. She picked up the first shot glass downing the tequila without pause. “For you Cowboy,” she said, choking from emotion more than the unaccustomed sting from the 80 proof alcohol.

  She watched the special operations buggies dart along the freeway, like Speedy Gonzalez on amphetamines, before stopping abruptly atop an overpass. The operators hopped out and scurried around, machine guns blazing, while the second group armed the final nuclear device, all in an attempt to save Colorado Springs from the undead juggernaut.

  Nash bumped the DVR speed to 30x, squinted her eyes, and waited for the inevitable flash. A few seconds later the screen went white. The major’s finger hovered over the pause button, hitting it only when the feed returned to normal and after the camera zoomed in on the remnants of the walking dead. The horde, several hundred thousand strong, had been obliterated, their ashes darkening the two roiling mushroom clouds.

  “Mission accomplished,” she whispered, hoisting and quickly downing the second shot.

  Once more Nash fingered the fast forward button, sending the hard drive into a fit of clicking and chirping. The rapidly advancing color feed changed to black and white and without looking at the transposed coordinates ticking by she knew it was the days old Keyhole satellite footage. She had risked career suicide by having the satellite retasked in order to confirm what her gut had already told her.

  Parked in a geosynchronous orbit directly over Southern California, the military satellite recorded the very disturbing week old images. Nash felt her stomach free-fall as the white, concrete and glass Webb Tower, bracketed by Lyon Center and Fluor Hall, came into view. Blue-black smoke billowed from the fourteen-story student housing building. The career Air Force officer looked over her shoulder to make doubly sure that she was alone, then let the hot tears flow while staring at the carnage that had taken place in and around the USC campus. Scattered about the pristine grounds, bodies of victims and walking dead filled the screen. An emergency vehicle tore down the street in front of Fluor Hall, its destination a mystery. The sense Nash had harbored in her gut since Z Day plus three had just been confirmed. Nadia’s personal safety never made it high enough on the Major’s triage list. The country, in its final death throes, had inexplicably sucked up all of her time, attention, and resources. Therefore she had totally abandoned her only daughter to a fate unknown, and for that she would forever hold herself responsible.

  “For you, Nadia,” Nash expelled the words between body wracking sobs, and then finished the final shot of tequila. “I miss you honey...”

  As the night wore on, frightening footage of Los Angeles falling to the dead churned across the flat screen, and the level of Patron Anejo in the hand blown glass bottle gradually closed the distance to the desk top. “Gotta be careful,” Nash slurred to herself. “One too many and I might be tempted to put a bullet in Pug’s brain myself.”

  ***

  Nash opened one eye. The 50th Space Wing logo caromed around the LCD flat panel. Leave it to the U.S. Air Force brass to squander the taxpayer’s money on a vanity screensaver, she mused. Was there any other reason a flying toy like the Global Hawk could cost a hundred million dollars? The pork-loaded bills that had passed so easily through the Senate and the House of Representatives in the years before the Omega outbreak only added to the ballooning national debt which had been running away from its masters for more than a decade. She smirked, then tilted her head back and closed both eyes.

  ***

  From her vantage point, the rectangular screen seemed to have been stood on end. She opened the other eye, and then became aware of her head’s rela
tion to the metal desk top and the pool of saliva lapping at her cheek.

  What have you done Nash? she asked herself. It wasn’t like her to let personal matters infiltrate her professional life. Being a career officer didn’t mean you couldn’t be human. It meant you had to be human on your own time. With the events of the last twenty-four hours and the possibility of more saboteurs roaming the base she should have never opened the bottle. And furthermore, she reasoned, if Colonel Shrill had come by, her ass would have been grass, and he would have been mowing it.

  As she swiftly disposed of the three shot glasses and the damning bottle of to-kill-ya a very large transport flew at tree-top-level over her office. That it had come in from the east meant it had to be one of the Hercules that set out foraging for fuel hours earlier. As if on cue the second turboprop blazed overhead, also on approach to the westernmost runway.

  The cacophony, though hard on her pounding head, was music to her ears.

  Chapter 16

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Schriever AFB

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  Motor Pool

  Formalities out of the way, Brook climbed up into the cab and took her ‘gunners’ seat on the passenger’s side. She placed her M4 between her legs, barrel pointing downwards with the butt stock fully collapsed.

  Wilson emerged from behind the truck.

  Brook watched him in the side mirror as he checked the tires on his side. Kid’s got a head on his shoulders, she reasoned. I hope he can drive this thing.

  The door creaked open and the spry young man hopped in. “So you’re my gunner... better you than me,” he opined.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “My track record with firearms hasn’t been stellar,” he said as he patted the handle of his prized Todd Helton-autographed Louisville Slugger, which had obviously seen better days and smacked more than just baseballs. “Let’s just say I know how to wield this much better.”

  “You mean to tell me you don’t have a gun.”

  Wilson nodded towards Brook’s black rifle, his eyes tracking to the three magazines on the seat and the two easily accessible extra magazines secured by Velcro in the front pouches of her MOLLE rig and said, “No but it looks like you’ve got us both covered... and then some.”

  Without acknowledging the very astute observation she asked, “Have you been outside of the wire yet?”

  “Today will be the first time since I got here from Denver.”

  “When was that?”

  “Two days ago. My sister and I... along with two others were stranded on 25 north of here. This fella named Pug saved all of us... we came here in his truck.”

  Brook’s face turned ashen as she absentmindedly fiddled with her carbine. “What was the guy’s name—the one who saved you?” she asked.

  “Pug... strange name. He’s a strange guy—how he came upon us and where he disappeared to after quarantine is still an effin’ mystery to me. I didn’t even get to thank him.”

  “Tell me all about your trip from Denver,” Brook said through gritted teeth.

  “It’s going to take a while. I’ll tell you all about it as soon as we get underway. Right now... I’ve gotta go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” he said as he jumped out of the truck.

  Five long minutes later Wilson returned.

  Brook squirmed, barely able to contain her rising angst.

  “Better now than when we’re... outside the wire... that sounds like something John Wayne probably said in that one Vietnam war movie...”

  “The Green Berets,” Brook muttered as she rolled her window down and craned her head to see what was happening. Up near the front of the convoy, which was made up of ten large moving trucks and three military vehicles lined up bumper to bumper, she noticed the lead Humvee start up with a puff of black exhaust. Then she continued, “We’re going to be on the move shortly... and the second you take your foot off of the brake you had better start spilling your guts.”

  Brook had the redhead’s full attention. Wilson sat speechless, mind trying to reconcile why the lockjawed lady was holding him in such contempt.

  A sudden knock on the driver’s door caused Wilson to jump, freeing him from Brook’s Medusalike glare.

  Colonel Shrill, who had been walking down the line of U-Hauls giving one-on-one briefings to the civilian drivers, made a circular motion with his hand implying that he wanted Wilson to roll down his window.

  “Yes sir,” Wilson said nervously, his stomach in knots. He had a feeling the looming soldier had somehow found out his secret. Sasha’s scathing diatribe replayed in his head—“What makes you think they will let you drive one of their trucks? You had better evaluate your last statement Wilson,” the teen had said, spitting out his name, “you are not a good driver. You totaled Angela and Saul’s Suburban in Castle Rock for eff’s sake. What makes you think you can drive something bigger... with different results?”

  Without responding to his sister’s venomous attack he had left their tent in a huff with the recruitment flyer he had torn from the mess hall corkboard in hand, and went straight to the staging area. Two hours had elapsed since then and if he knew his sister—who when scorned would do anything to ruin the offending parties’ day, week, or month—he was certain she somehow had a hand in this. Therefore he had no doubt in his mind that he was about to be yanked from the truck and sent packing.

  “Brooklyn Grayson...” Shrill intoned, completely ignoring Wilson. “Your wish is apparently my command. You keep an eye on this kid,” he said with a wink and tapped a thick finger on top of Wilson’s boonie hat. “He says he’s a pretty good driver.”

  “Will do Sir... and thanks for this opportunity,” blurted Brook.

  “Ear muffs, kid.”

  Wilson made a face but complied by cupping his hands over his ears.

  Shrill smiled at the sight and said, “Believe me Brook, I know how you feel. I’ve been imprisoned on this base since Z day minus a week, give or take. Sure I’ve been busy... Lord knows that. But I’m going stir crazy. Get some, will you? The sooner we mop up these walking biohazards the sooner the rest of us can start searching for our loved ones.”

  Sensing movement reflected in the passenger mirror, Brook momentarily broke eye contact with the Colonel. A burly gun truck bristling with weapons had formed up on the Dakota’s bumper.

  Shrill handed a laminated map and a pair of radios across to Brook. He went over their basic functions and went on, “The freqs are set. Your call sign is Dakota”—Brook rolled her eyes—“don’t stop unless the lead vehicle stops. Anyone else stops... breaks down, etcetera, keep moving. The soldiers on your six will check on ‘em. Red... if you break down, or get a flat, hit a walker and can’t continue... anything—do not exit the vehicle. The same holds for you Brook. Wait for the guys in the MRAP to come to your aid... any questions?”

  Continuing to sit stock still with his eyes boring into the roll down door of the truck in front, Wilson inquired, “What exactly is an MRAP?”

  “Stands for, Mine Resistant, Ambush Protected vehicle. That’s the truck Staff Sergeant Lawson and the boys are riding in behind you. I don’t think mines will come into play today, but the ambush part—it’s a noisy rig so the Zs are going to come a running... or staggering at least. There are still a lot of them in and around Springs and the farther out you go the worse it gets. Gaines and his boys are good... but they aren’t God. By the way... you all are honored to roll with the general today. Gaines is riding point in the lead gun truck,” Shrill said, arching his eyebrows an inch.

  Oh great, Brook thought to herself, wondering if the man who had recently been promoted to replace Mike Desantos still held a grudge against her. Although she wasn’t proud of the sneaky stowaway move she had pulled in order to go along on the hospital foraging mission, she didn’t regret her actions. The byproduct of the mission alone made her act of subterfuge worthwhile—because the antibiotics she brought back had saved her ailing brother’s life.
Then she winced in pain as she remembered, one more time, that Carl was gone forever.

  “Carry on,” Shrill said stone-faced.

  Wilson watched the tall Colonel scrutinize the dead Presidents of Mount Rushmore as he strode by the U-Haul heading towards the hulking MRAP. “Intense,” he exclaimed wide eyed.

  Brook remained silent, her thoughts focused inward.

  Chapter 17

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Logan Winter’s Compound

  Eden, Utah

  Strident banging, like a jackhammer on a construction site, nudged Duncan from his stupor. He came to feeling like a dump truck had driven over his brain, and then, making matters worse, promptly reversed, depositing a full load of sand in his mouth. Just to make sure it wasn’t actually swelling to beanbag size and then imploding in on itself— black hole-like, he gripped his throbbing head with both hands. Every action, word, and memory after the last beer from the six pack was a blur—choppy like some artsy Tarantino flick.

  “Arrgghh,” was all he could muster. I sounds kinda like a zombie, he mused. His mission: to do a little forgettin’, as he had stated so eloquently the night before, and the night before that, had been accomplished in spades. If he wasn’t careful, he told himself between crushing throbs, he might have to answer the dreaded Twenty Questions. Hello, my name is Duncan...

  Begging God to ease the pressure pounding in his head, he focused on the ceiling which was cut up by evenly spaced steel cross members that ran the length of the rectangular-shaped subterranean dwelling. His first impression of the room was that it had the feel of an old Fleetwood single wide: thin pile carpet covered the cold floor, and pale wood paneling mostly hid the rust colored steel walls. Institutional plastic chairs and tables, sturdy and functional, furnished each working and living space. The two dozen people sharing the good sized bunker slept on bunk beds yet still had enough elbow room to keep them from wanting to strangle each other. Duncan had to admit—Logan did a stellar job of acquiring the steel shipping containers for the right price, and with the help of friends and a rented Caterpillar excavator, had arranged and buried all ten in a semi H shape. The rigid boxes measuring twenty feet long, eight feet wide, and eight feet tall were outfitted as a bug out shelter where Logan and his closest friends could retreat in the event of a societal collapse.