A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Ari coaxed the Ghost Hawk forward low and slow, passing only a dozen feet over the exhausted survivors, and then continued north, following the serpentine reservoir and keeping close to the slow moving water on the back side of the Flaming Gorge hydroelectric dam.

  The shipboard comms crackled to life. “Starboard side, eight bodies. Appears to be...seven children and an adult female,” Hicks said. “And they are currently hailing us.”

  Standing out in sharp contrast against the pristine white superstructure atop their single mast sailboat, the badly sunburnt survivors jumped up and down, gesturing wildly.

  “Captain Grayson, permission to hail the crew?” Ari asked.

  After a moment’s thought Cade replied, “We can’t pick them up so what do you propose we do?”

  “Give them a little hope,” Ari quietly answered. With pangs of guilt from leaving the passengers of the Happy Hour high and dry stabbing him in the gut, and the painful and not too distant memory of the mercy killings at the old folks home outside of Atlanta still fresh on his mind—helping these folks in any way—even indirectly—would go a long way towards reconciling his Karmic account balance.

  “Go ahead Ari,” Cade said, knowing full well the eight souls below were as good as dead already.

  Ari tapped the glass touchscreen, switching the comms to the ship’s outside speaker. “Survivors... we cannot take you onboard. We will try and send help. Stay put and await rescue.”

  Crestfallen, the children stopped waving and slowly lowered their arms, then the woman, displaying her obvious disappointment, fell to her knees on the boat’s teakwood deck.

  “That didn’t have the effect I was looking for,” Ari admitted. As far as the group still being alive if and when help arrived—that fell somewhere between slim and none—and if this was a hand of Texas Hold’em, Ari thought, none was holding a pair of pocket aces and had just pushed his chips all in.

  As the dam disappeared behind them Ari addressed Cade. “You are one lucky man, Captain Grayson.”

  “How so?”

  “Your family is safe and sound behind the wire. Mine... not so much. They went missing when Fort Campbell fell.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that Ari,” Cade offered solemnly.

  “I’ve come to grips...with a little help from Mark. Mr. Makers Mark.”

  Is this man ever serious? Cade asked himself. “As far as me being the beneficiary of good fortune, luck had nothing to do with my family making it out of Bragg. My wife willed herself to Schriever. She didn’t give up... no matter what got in her way she dealt with it in order to protect our daughter.”

  “You’re shitting me Delta. You had nothing to do with it?”

  Cade swallowed hard. “Not directly... I just told her where to find safety and who to trust. That’s all,” Cade admitted.

  Durant entered the conversation. “Who helped her out then?”

  “Desantos,” Cade answered quietly.

  Stabbing a gloved finger at the sky Maddox broke in, “Cowboy, you old warhorse, I’m gonna miss you.”

  Every head in the bird, including Ari’s, tilted for a moment of silence and then, after an appropriately timed sign of the cross, Lopez spoke over the comms. “My madre...she was in Albuquerque. She didn’t pick up the phone the last time I called her...before the mierda really hit the fan.”

  Cade looked over to notice that Lopez’s entire body was shaking. Whether it was sorrow or rage, he had been there often since all of this bullshit started and he certainly wasn’t one to judge Lopez because of his display of emotion. The stocky Hispanic operator had been nothing but professional since the moment they met, therefore Cade harbored no reservations that Lopez was good to go. Furthermore he held no reservations about trusting the man with his life.

  Having composed himself, Lopez proffered confidently, “That was the day before all of the cellular circuits failed. I’m certain she went to Sacred Heart and she’s safe with Father Brand. I feel it in my bones.”

  “She sounds like a strong, intelligent lady...a survivor,” Cade said, co-signing the younger operator’s hope.

  “I’m just going to think good thoughts and trust that God will look after those unfortunate souls back there,” Lopez declared, sounding a little more hopeful. “And I’m going to continue to do the same for my madre.”

  Cade had nothing more to add; Lopez had succeeded in beating him to it. He merely nodded, broke eye contact, and gazed out the window.

  Like a modern day Hooverville—RVs, pop-up campers and tents of all shapes, sizes and colors dotted the shore and crowded every square inch of dusty ground inside of the tree line. If it weren’t for the putrefying bodies and staggering dead, the scene that flashed by the helicopter might have been mistaken for any camp ground, anywhere in the United States on Labor Day weekend—overflowing to say the least. In reality, what Cade saw spilled a few more precious ounces from the imaginary glass in his mind—which was no longer half full—nor half empty—it was just about bone dry.

  Despite having practiced his customary pre-mission ritual, Cade caught himself losing focus and zoning out, eyes locked on the glassy water gliding by mere feet below the helo’s underside. Try as he might to concentrate on the task at hand, he kept obsessing over the prisoner back at Schriever and the well-earned punishment he was going to mete out. He also found it difficult to ignore his own bearded face reflected in the glass. The red-rimmed eyes staring back at him, witness to so much death in so short a time, gave him pause. He felt like he was at another convergence, and upon returning to Schriever, a long sit down with Brook was in order. It might be time to check his patriotism at the door and dig deep to find out where his real priorities lay.

  Chapter 30

  Outbreak - Day 11

  South of Schriever

  With the southbound lanes leaving Colorado Springs thoroughly obstructed with bumper to bumper cars and SUVs, the thirteen vehicle convoy navigated the northbound lanes zippering their way through the smaller number of stalls and pileups, oftentimes leaving the freeway altogether to circumvent major blockages.

  Directing his question at the general, Sergeant Hill asked, “Where did all of these people go... it’s like they just left their vehicles here and poof?”

  “Some stayed put,” Gaines said, indicating the many reachers and grabbers trapped in their glass and metal prisons. He swept his hand towards the countryside made up of scrub trees and red-brown hillocks. “The rest are out there somewhere, son. Waiting for us to slip up and become their dinner.”

  ***

  It chilled Wilson how the numbers of Zs began to increase exponentially the closer the slow moving convoy got to the interchange. Although nothing close to the hordes out of Denver, he couldn’t help but notice the similarities between the two, and judging by their stained and ratty clothes most of the shamblers appeared to be first turns that had already logged lots of miles on foot migrating from somewhere.

  “I have a question for you lady.”

  “Brook works for me,” she said sharply. Still kind of heated from the earlier Pug comment, she sat coiled, waiting for the wrong words to spew from the kid.

  “Where is your daughter?” he asked.

  She swallowed hard and gazed at the modern day version of the Trail of Tears filing by on the other side of the divider, hundreds of vehicles manned by corpses—both moving and truly dead, cars packed with belongings of people whose fate she would never know. She noticed one truck in particular, its bed loaded with plastic yard toys, household furniture and all manner of worldly belongings—a poignant testament to that family’s hope that they would find refuge somewhere.

  Sensing her unease, he raised his palms from the wheel and said, “If you don’t want to talk about it that’s OK by me.”

  Brook turned away from the carnage outside to glare at Wilson. “Why do you care?”

  “I heard the hurt in your voice back there... when you were trying to save the young girl.”

  “I do n
ot want to go there so drop the personal stuff.”

  “My bad,” he said quietly, returning his eyes to the road.

  ***

  As soon as the lead gun truck reached the turn off that would take them towards the warehouse district, Gaines noticed the number of sun baked walkers trudging the interstate had inexplicably slowed to a trickle. For all he knew the stragglers at the tail end of the herd could have been victims of a house fire, hobbling along single file in ones and twos, blackened skin peeling and sloughing off.

  “General Gaines,” Hill pointed a little west of south, “there—you see the smoke?”

  “Looks like we’ve got a forest fire in the distance.”

  “That’s where the New Koreshians are coming from, eh?”

  “Not funny, soldier. I lost a cousin in Guyana. Ever heard of Jim Jones?” Gaines said behind a withering stare.

  Concentrating as he downshifted, Hill eased the Humvee around an overturned Suburban, and as they came up alongside the turtled Chevy a pale appendage reached from the blown out window. He turned the wheel to the left ever so slightly and maneuvered the three ton Hummer’s left front wheel over the groping hand.

  Gaines shot a why the hell did you have to go and do that look at his driver as the sound of crunching bone made its way through the undercarriage and reached their ears.

  “Sorry General,” Hill said guiltily. Then, switching back to the first subject, he pulled the name from his memory. “Jim Jones... he was that guy who made people drink poisoned Kool-Aid... right?”

  “You can call me Gaines. I’m still a door kicking shooter in here.” He tapped his body armor over his heart. “And you are correct, the devil held a hell of a sway over more than a thousand people... enough to get them to line up and commit mass suicide. My aunt Laura and my cousin Lonna were among the nine hundred and nine followers he made drink cyanide. Lonna wasn’t a follower—we were around ten at the time—tragic shit.”

  “I’m sorry I dredged that up sir,” Hill said as he followed the onramp heading east. The roiling columns of brown-gray smoke now obscured the horizon off of their right shoulders to the south near Pueblo. “Two more miles,” he said. Then he made a silent pact with himself to cut out the wisecracks and stick to the facts—yes sir, no sir—the last thing he needed was to get on the general’s bad side. After all, driving the man around would come with perks that he could get used to.

  ***

  Brook removed the magazine, noted the shiny brass, and then reseated it in the well. After running out of ammunition—which Cade would have pointed out as a dangerous rookie mistake—she vowed to always be more vigilant. She reluctantly filed that one in the ‘need to know’ column. What had happened back there hadn’t put their daughter in danger—therefore Cade didn’t ‘need to know’ about it.

  She wriggled in her seat trying to rid the stiffness wrought from sitting in the truck for two hours wearing bulky ballistic armor under her fatigues. After the encounter with the zombies she contemplated removing the heavy piece of equipment until Cade’s voice infiltrated her thoughts advising her otherwise. Just a few more minutes, she said to herself.

  “That’s got to be the place,” Wilson said hopefully.

  In the distance, at the bottom of the long gradually sloping four-lane highway they were currently on, sat a sprawling grid of gray metal structures. Consisting of acres and acres of identical two story square buildings—their tops bristling with antenna, refrigeration units and various HVAC apparatus—the business park resembled something the Borg might have cobbled together.

  Wilson whistled. “That’s a big piece of real estate down there, lots of nooks and crannies for a rotter to hide.”

  “I hope the general knows where to start. Because if he doesn’t we may be staying the night.”

  “I didn’t bring my pillow la... Brook.” He almost said lady again but wisely corrected himself. There was no telling if the lady was over the Pug comment or not.

  Brook shot Wilson a glare—held it for a second—then cracked a thin lipped smile.

  “I want to get back and make sure Sasha is OK. Plus, the thought of staying overnight, in the dark, without a twelve foot fence to keep the rotters at bay is effing terrifying.”

  She stared at him. “What doesn’t kill us only makes us stronger.”

  He stared back as long as he dared.

  The facility was less than a football field away and the convoy was beginning to slow.

  “Don’t you want to get back to Raven?”

  “More than you know.”

  The feelings Brook was experiencing “outside of the wire”—as she had heard Cade refer to the cities and streets and buildings beyond Schriever populated by walkers and death—was refreshing and like no other. The last time she remembered having felt this alive was at 11,240 feet above sea level on the summit of Mt. Hood back in Oregon. She had been chasing that high ever since and finally had found its replacement. To Brook, the adrenaline flow caused by combat had become like a drug and she wanted more.

  ***

  Grand Junction, Colorado

  Daylight was dwindling and so was Taryn’s hope that she would ever see her family again. The smartphone’s battery was officially dead. She was tired of rereading texts and tweets and looking at pictures of people she knew were probably dead anyway. She closed her eyes. Time to go or you’re dead, her inner voice said forcefully. She stood and opened the door as quietly as possible. The smell blasted her in the face. Dickless’s constant trips up and down the carpeted steps had left a discernible black slug track of bodily fluids down the center.

  Get the gun.

  She reached the main floor undetected and crept to the air marshal’s rigid corpse. She stared at the lifeless eyes and the bullet hole in his forehead, and as her fingertips made contact with the gun, her wrist brushed against cold flesh, making her shiver. The cross hatched grip felt strange in her palm as she struggled to free the black revolver from the cop’s ankle holster. Unsnap the strap.

  Somewhere behind her one of the monsters began to moan.

  She looked around frantically. Dickless was nowhere in sight; however, Porkpie was angling towards her from the right.

  Taryn’s fight or flight instinct kicked in. Flight won out. Hopscotching over bloated bodies, she made her way to the revolving door. She hit the handle running. The door moved six inches then seized up. Looking up the reason became clear—trapped between the partitions—Chester stared down at her with milky dead eyes. Taryn thought if she could get the door moving she could trade places with the undead porter and find herself on the outside. In a last ditch effort to escape the concourse and avoid the advancing hipster she threw all of her weight behind the effort. Still, the door wouldn’t budge.

  “Shit, shit...,” she blurted.

  With Chester blocking her way and more zombies bearing down, Taryn was beginning to panic.

  With his mouth agape a hissing Dickless lunged for her.

  Ducking the clumsy cadaver she scooted backwards on the gore slickened tiles, scrambled to her feet and ran for the upstairs office, her sanctuary, her prison.

  After dodging the swipes of half a dozen other creatures she bounded up the stairs and slammed the door behind her.

  Sitting there staring at the gun clutched in her hand brought little comfort. She didn’t know whether she possessed enough courage to attempt another escape. And she was sure she didn’t possess the nerve to turn the gun on herself—so here she was right back in the same goddamn purgatory she had been since the dead began to walk.

  Three minutes later Dickless had trudged the stairs and was again rattling the door to his office.

  Chapter 31

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Schriever AFB

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  Civilian Billets

  After a light rap the door slowly hinged open, allowing a slice of muted early evening light to wash across the floor. Footsteps, heavy on the wooden stairs, preceded th
e large form filling the doorway.

  Looking up from her game of hide from them, the wide eyed girl retrieved a tattered cloth doll from under the covers and clutched it tightly to her chest. He smells like one of them a little bit, she thought, but he isn’t acting like one of them. She decided quickly she wouldn’t be scared.

  “Hi little girl... what’s your name?”

  He’s talking, that means he can’t be one of them, thought the girl. “My name’s Regina.”

  “Hi Regina, is your mommy here?”

  Regina pointed a tiny finger vertically and whispered, “She’s taking a nap.”

  A weary voice came from the top bunk. “I’m up here.” Then a woman peered over the bunk’s edge. “Why in the hell did you barge in here and what do you want?”

  “I knocked.”

  “Not loud enough,” the woman said as she lowered her medium sized frame to the wooden floor. She ran her hand through brunette hair; though dappled with gray she was still attractive (some would say a catch) and appeared much younger than her forty-one years. “You gonna answer my question?”

  “Name’s Elvis...”

  “Like the Hound Dog singer guy,” Regina blurted, cutting him short. She pushed a lock of golden hair from her eyes and said, “We danced to that in first grade.”

  “That’s who my momma named me after,” he answered in a soft drawl. “What’s your name ma’am?”

  “Theresa,” she said nervously. “Listen... my sister in-law will be back soon if she’s who you are you looking for?”

  “No ma’am... I know it’s a little late but I’ve got a day job here too.”

  “What’s your day job?” Theresa asked.

  “I just finished another long shift on BD.”

  “And what does that stand for?”

  “I was trying to be discrete—it’s short for burial detail,” he said quietly. Though not quiet enough to escape Regina’s ears.