by Ben S Reeder
“Sonofabitch!” someone yelled. “That was an Apache!” I felt my blood run cold at the news. I only knew of two things as tough as or tougher than an Apache gunship. One was an A-10 Thunderbolt, a tank buster of a plane known as the Warthog that sported half a ton of armor, and the 60 plus ton M1 Abrams, a main battle tank so indestructible it could withstand close range hits from its own cannons. I’d only heard of a handful of Apaches ever being shot down, and none of them had been brought down by anything short of a missile or concentrated anti-aircraft fire. The only advantage we had was that the Apache, like the Warthog and the Abrams, was designed mostly to fight targets on the ground. Of course, if it was carrying Stingers like we were, all bets were off. I looked at the lone Stinger tube on our right side and hoped it was enough.
We climbed as quickly as we could, our pilot trying to get altitude on the Apache and the still unseen third bandit. We cleared a column of thick smoke and veered right as we found the third chopper, another Blackhawk. Its pilot fired a missile the moment we saw him, but it never came close, and I didn’t see the pilot’s board light up to indicate the bandit had locked on to us. His door gunners were more on the ball, and opened fire on both sides as we passed. I got a brief impression of rounds hitting the left side of the chopper, then one of the Marines tackled me and shoved me back against Amy’s seat. I felt impacts against the Marine on top of me, then we were through the hail of enemy fire. When he didn’t move, I turned to look over my shoulder and saw a dangling eyeball and dripping gore. With a push against the seat, I shoved his body off of mine before Amy could get a good look at the ruin of his face, then turned to take stock of the situation. Blood was running across the deck, and both gunners were slumped at their guns. Looking forward I could see the pilot was dead, and the co-pilot was trying to fight the controls.
“Somebody get on one of the door guns!” the copilot was yelling over the headset. I looked back into the compartment, and only saw three Marines moving. One was pressing his hand down against his leg, the one in the middle seat against the rear wall was cradling a bloody arm, and the other was struggling to unbuckle the left door gunner’s body from his seat. I turned to Amy.
“Are you hurt?” I asked her. My hands were running along her arms and legs, searching for wounds.
“No!” she yelled. “I’m okay!” I nodded to her and moved to the right door gunner’s body. Trying to move a dead Marine and work the four point harness that held him in place was going to take too long. Instead, I pulled his combat knife from his belt and cut the straps, then pulled him to the side.
“Do one of you know how to use this thing?” I asked. They both nodded, then the Marine with he wounded leg pointed to the gunner’s seat.
“Siddown!” he yelled. I must have looked like a fish for a moment because he yelled it at me again, this time like a drill sergeant. “It’s simple! Pull the left trigger first, then the right trigger a second later. Follow your tracers and walk your fire where you want it!”
“I’m not a gunner!” I yelled at him. “I’m not even a Marine!”
“You are today!” he yelled back. I straddled the seat and grabbed the miniguns grips, looking for a target. I also tried to ignore the warm, damp feeling on my butt. As I searched, I saw black smoke coming from the engine cowling. Then the other chopper was above us and to our right. Tracer rounds sliced through the air ahead of us, and the copilot banked hard left as the deadly line of fire cut through the spot we’d just been in. When the other chopper dropped into my field of fire, I pressed the left trigger, then the right and heard the ripping sound of the minigun unleashing three thousand rounds a minute. I watched my own tracer rounds make a bright line in the air behind the other Blackhawk. I swept the spinning barrels left, then right as the bullets chewed the other helicopter’s fuselage, then swept it back and forth in broad swaths to be sure I killed it.
“You’re shooting at my kid!” I yelled at the black chopper as it burst into flames. I let go of the triggers and found myself breathing hard.
“Bandit left!” I heard the man on the other side yell, then the copilot brought our nose up and braked us hard in midair. Again, the metallic hammer of the Apache’s thirty millimeter cannon sounded, then the other bird was passing in front of us.
The nose dropped back down, and I heard a half second of tone before the copilot called out, “Fox one, motherfucker.” The Stinger pod spat its lethal payload into the air, then the rocket motor ignited and sent it straight for the Apache. The enemy pilot tried to maneuver out of the way, but we were too close for him to do more than tilt his aircraft. The missile slammed into the gunship just behind the pilot’s seat, and sent the black helicopter down in a ball of fire.
“Oorah!” the Marine on the other gun called out, and the other two echoed him. I climbed over the bodies sprawled on the deck and stuck my head into the front compartment.
“How bad is it?” I asked. The copilot’s face told me what I suspected, and I grabbed the pilot’s headset to replace mine.
“We’re gonna lose power in a couple of minutes. I can bring us in, but it ain’t gonna be pretty. If we survive the landing, it might be easier than staying alive afterward.”
“Am I patched into the radio on this?” I asked.
“Yes, just press that button there to transmit. Our callsign is Talon 3,” he told me as he put both hands on the stick.
“Bobcat, this is Dave Stewart on Talon 3,” I said, making hash of radio etiquette. Static answered me for a few seconds, then a familiar voice filled my ears.
“For Christ’s sake, Stewart, you are harder to kill than a goddamn cockroach,” the Marine major said with something resembling humor in his voice.
“Kind of you to say so, sir. Look, I need to ask you a favor. Is there a woman named Maya Weiss on your plane? If she is, I’d really like to talk to her.”
“Is it important enough that it can’t wait ‘til we land, son?” he asked. Moments later, the C-130 came into sight through the smoke. “Aw, hell,” I heard him say.
“I don’t think we’re going to be landing in the same place, so yeah, I need to know if she’s still alive and if she is, I need to talk to her.” Moments later, Maya’s voice was in my ears, and I felt my breath catch in my throat.
“Dave? Baby, are you okay? What about Amy and Karl?” she asked. Her voice was thick with emotion, and a little rough around the edges.
“I’m fine, baby. So is Amy. Karl…he…he didn’t make it. He saved our lives.” I looked out the front canopy and saw the ground getting a little closer to us. I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the next part. “Look, we’re going down, Maya. You’re going to have to get Cassie and Bryce to Nate’s. I’m sorry to put that on you, but I’m going to catch up to you as soon as I can.”
“I told you not to do that to me again,” she said, her tone forced.
“And I told you I couldn’t promise that. But I will promise you this, Maya Weiss. Amy and I will make it back to you.”
“Swear it?” her voice cracked.
“I swear it. Like I told you before, even the zombie apocalypse can’t keep me away from you.”
“I’ve got good news,” she said with the barest hint of a waver in her tone. “Leo and Sherman are on the plane with us. They even got our Land Masters loaded. Did you get my care package?”
“Yeah,” I said, my throat tight.
“Then you better get your ass in gear. You know how your cat gets when you’re gone too long.” A red light started flashing on the instrument panel, then another, and alarms started buzzing.
“I gotta go, baby. I love you,” I said as the plane banked in front of us and circled to our left.
“I love you, Dave.” Her voice was strong by then, and steady. I pulled the headphones off and went to the right side of the compartment. The chopper began to shudder as we got closer to the layer of smoke that blanketed the middle of Kansas City, forcing me to grab one of the straps next to the door. Then, the sound of
the C-130’s turboprop engines was clear and loud in my ears as it passed by on our right side. The black haze rose around us as I watched the plane head west, and we fell into darkness, the chopper’s engine silent, the only thing slowing our descent the rotors themselves.
“I will never falter,” I recited from the Airman’s Creed as I started to strap myself into the seat beside Amy’s. “And I will not fail.” I reached out, grabbed her hand…and prayed.
A Letter to the Reader
Dear Reader,
Thank you for buying Zompoc: Exodus. I hope you enjoyed Dave’s adventures as much as I enjoyed writing about them. Rest assured, Dave’s exploits will continue in Zompoc: Odyssey. I’ll keep you updated on the progress of the story through my website, www.chancefortunato.com, and give you glimpses into Dave’s world.
Like all authors, my success depends on you, so again, I want to express my gratitude. Like most writers, I’m always trying to get better at what I do, and I’d appreciate your help with that. Please take just a few minutes to leave a review of the book and let me know what you think. Your feedback is important, and I’m glad to get it.
In the meantime, I’ll be trying to get Dave out of Kansas City and delving into the truth about the men in black and their part in the zombie apocalypse. Until then, stay frosty.
Sincerely,
Ben Reeder
Appendix 1:
Dave’s Rules of Survival
98% of survival is mental. Attitude, knowledge and planning ahead will keep you alive when shit hits the fan.
Only 2% of survival is physical, but it’s an important 2%.
Rule of three: 3 minutes without air, 3 hours without shelter, 3 days without water, 3 weeks without food.
Plan ahead.
Always have a back up for everything. Have a Plan B, because Plan A almost never works.
Keep the basics for survival with you at all times.
Know your terrain.
Always carry a sharp knife.
Always know where the exits are and know how to get to them in a hurry and in the dark.
Always make sure you know where your clothes and your gear are, and be able to get to them in the dark.
Have at least two sources of light at all times.
Assume that people suck after shit hits the fan, and that they’re after your stuff.
Don’t be one of the people who suck after shit hits the fan.
Guns are not magic wands. If you point one at someone, don’t assume they’re going to automatically do what you tell them to. Be ready to pull the trigger if they don’t.
Assume every gun is loaded if you’re not in a fight. Don’t point a gun at anything you want to keep.
Don’t count on any gun you might pick up during a fight. There might be a very good reason it’s on the ground.
Never put your finger on the trigger until you’re ready to pull it. Be sure of your target and what’s behind it if you do.
Know how shit works.
Never assume you know enough. Assume you always need to learn more.
If shit hasn’t hit the fan, it isn’t too late to prepare.
Always try your plan and gear out before you rely on it to keep you alive.
Watch out for your friends and family. No part of your survival prep is more important.
Appendix 2:
Resources:
Aside from the military hardware he picks up along the way, everything Dave uses in the story is available to buy or make. I’ve listed some of the places Dave would have bought his gear from below.
www.zombietools.net
These are the real life folks who made Dave’s knives and sword. Great bunch of guys with a down to earth attitude. I’d trust my own life to their weapons any day.
http://www.darkangelmedical.com/
The folks over at Dark Angel Medical, who inspired Dave’s kit in his cache tube and bug out bag. For a no-nonsense response kit, the folks at Dark Angel have you covered.
http://d2efoods.com/
Down To Earth Foods is the kind of place where Dave and Maya bought their bulk foods and staples, as well as their food storage containers.
http://beprepared.com/#default
Emergency Essentials, where Dave would also have bought freeze dried foods and other essentials. Though he would have created his own bug out bags, these folks have some decent 72 hour kits of their own.
http://www.rareseeds.com/
Baker Creek Heirloom Seeds would have been Dave’s choice for his seeds for the homestead. He would have gone with heirloom seeds for practical reasons, one being that they aren’t dependent on any outside provider for replanting (no contracts saying you can’t replant part of what you harvest, so no requirements that you buy seed from the company every year) and no dependency on certain pesticides or fertilizers for “best results.”
http://www.ruger.com/products/1022/
The Ruger 10/22 is Dave’s choice of utility weapon. Light, rugged and reliable, the 10/22 is one of the most popular rifles ever made for a reason. And in spite of some of the myths out there, the .22 caliber round is perfectly capable of dropping a zombie with a head shot within 100 yards.
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1: Terrible Knowledge
Chapter 2: An Ounce of Preparation
Chapter 3: Xanatos Speedchess
Chapter 4: Learning Curve
Chapter 5: Oaths and Anticipation
Chapter 6: The Ashes of Faith
Chapter 7: Average, Ordinary Heroes
Chapter 8: Side Trips
Chapter 9: A Little Knowledge
Chapter 10: A Good Man
Chapter 11: Homecoming
Chapter 12: Respite, Reunion & Revelation
Chapter 13: The Color of Authority
Chapter 14: Choices
Chapter 15: Miles to go…
A Letter To the Reader
Appendix 1: Dave’s Rules
Appendix 2: Resources