Soldier On: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  “We’ve been shootin and scootin since Z day plus two. We were based outside of Seattle. Wow...I’m gonna miss Seattle... shit hit the fan fast. Anyway you’ll be riding in the Bradley with me.”

  “I don’t have a choice?” Dan asked.

  “No. And I’ll tell you why when we get underway. Besides if you would’ve seen Seattle, Portland, and Boise you would be begging us to take you.” The soldier stared off into the distance and then reacquired eye contact with Dan. His eyes narrowed before he spoke, “You don’t want to be out there alone. We’ve been ordered to muster all hands and make way for Colorado Springs, ASAP. It’s the new Capital of the United States.”

  Dan was dying to unload the burden he was carrying and spew everything he had witnessed in his hometown of Stanley, all of the atrocities, as well as the details relating to Sheriff Blanda’s horrific death. Bottom line, Ganz and his boys needed to pay. It was a long haul to Colorado. He was sure he would get his chance and hopefully all of his questions could be answered as well.

  The two semi trucks joined the convoy of Humvees, Bradley fighting vehicles and eight wheeled Strykers from Fort Lewis. They had to push through Pocatello and continue to soldier onward to Colorado Springs.

  Chapter 31

  Outbreak Day 6

  Hanna, Utah

  Daymon had been sitting on the hardwood floor for an hour and a half. The fact that he could actually feel, through the seat of his pants, the bumps and bangs of the zombies a few feet away was supremely disconcerting, and to add to his discomfort; Hosford wouldn’t shut up.

  “We’re done for man. How in the hell are we going to get out of this mess?”

  Despite the plugs in his ears, Daymon could still hear the moans coming from the restless pack of undead in the foyer. He was feeling a little manic; all of his senses were under assault.

  “Robin Hood, you got any ideas?”

  “Shhhh,” Daymon put a finger to his lips.

  “Fuck off! Don’t you dare shush me.”

  Daymon glared at the shirtless lawyer, pushed the dreads away from his ear and swiveled his head in the direction of the open window.

  “Please, be quiet...I hear an engine.” His voice, dripping with insincerity, sounded like it came from someone reluctantly working in customer service. It worked; Hoss shut his mouth and listened for the engine as well.

  ***

  Cade was having a hard time shifting. He ground the gears, wincing after each violent clunk of metal on metal. Once on the straight away he kept the RV in fourth gear and gained some speed.

  How the old folks drove these things without killing everybody else on the road baffled him. The steering was sluggish and unresponsive and when he pressed on the brakes it felt like he was stepping on a pillow.

  Yet another zombie wandered directly into the path of the motorhome. The impact knocked the shoes from its cold feet and sent him flying into a white picket fence. Now shoeless and punctured with multiple pieces of splintered wood, the ghoul stood and limped after the hit and run driver.

  At the last moment Cade recognized the thicket of aspens in front of the two story house and wrenched the humongous steering wheel to the right. “Shit...” one word said it all. Screeching tires protested the sudden change of direction. The multi-ton RV was out of control and the brakes weren’t responding. The bodies trapped under the vehicle were slowing it down slightly but not enough to prevent the impending collision. Cade was able to steer the thing a few feet to the left of the front porch. This wasn’t turning out how he had planned.

  With a sound like a bomb blast the Winnebago sheared off half of the stairs and dislodged a solid oak column. The RV finally came to rest wedged underneath part of the front porch.

  Cade’s eyes widened at the sheer number of approaching zombies. A pale face slammed into the glass on the driver’s side, the jaundiced eyes hungrily followed his every movement. Cade put the Winnebago in reverse and tried re-starting the engine.

  ***

  Hosford crushed up against Daymon in front of the narrow window. They both had their faces pressed to the glass, trying in vain to catch a first glimpse of the approaching vehicle.

  “He’s coming in hot,” Daymon said, watching the white behemoth barely negotiate the screeching right hand turn. Dangerously listing on two wheels, the RV plowed over two of the aspens before crunching like aluminum can into the porch. A shudder resonated through the house as it was nudged off of the foundation.

  “That had to be our guy...right?”

  Daymon looked at Hosford, thinking, this dolt’s a lawyer? It took every ounce of willpower to restrain himself from putting the Glock behind the fat man’s ear and shutting his trap for good. Daymon was no murderer but the incessant yammering heaped upon the stresses of being trapped was getting to be too much. “Yes, master of the obvious, it did look like our man.”

  ***

  After a few cranks the engine turned over and sputtered to life. Cade jammed the tree mounted shifter into reverse and gunned the engine. The wheels spun freely gouging furrows into the brown grass. The full weight of the porch roof rested on the RV, it was going nowhere.

  Resigned to the fact that he was back to square one...almost; Cade checked the driver’s door, grabbed his rifle and moved into the passenger compartment.

  Rotting faces were pressing against every window. After locking the side door he made the rounds and closed all of the curtains. Cade hoped it might buy him some time to plan his escape. He thought his options through: Driver door-no luck too many of them, passenger door-hopelessly wedged shut from the impact with the porch and lastly the back window was fixed in place and wasn’t meant to open. The zombies were now messing with the cabin door, the sliding latch jiggled but the door didn’t open. That had to be luck. These things can’t really work a door knob. Cade’s inner voice told him.

  Cade looked above his head. In the center of the low ceiling was a small pop up air vent. He pushed it open letting the noxious carrion odor permeate the inside of the Winnebago.

  Cade thought someone as lean as Daymon might fit, but he knew that he had absolutely no chance of exiting through the small portal. Aside from the windows, which really weren’t an option, the roof was the only way out.

  Cade repeatedly bashed at the cheap tan plastic trim, the vent eventually lost out to the sharp blows from his rifle.

  ***

  From their vantage point in the house, the men watched the vent pop out and skitter off of the vehicles roof. A pair of gloved hands touched around the outside of the opening.

  The zombies were reaching a fevered pitch.

  “He’s hosed...and so are we,” Daymon whispered.

  “Noooo!” Hoss screamed.

  ***

  Cade fished the makeshift cloth earplugs from his pocket and reinserted them into both ears. With his back facing the house, lest he accidently shoot the men inside, he crouched down and began shooting holes in a rough circle, through the thin aluminum roof. He used all thirty rounds, ejected the spent mag and inserted his last one.

  Breaking glass littered the floor as the weight of the agitated zombies pushed the thin siding of the Winnebago inward and imploded the smaller wing windows. Cold gray hands thrust between the curtains, longing to get ahold of anything living.

  A fit of dry heaves wracked Cade’s body as the smell of the dead overwhelmed him in the hot-cramped vehicle.

  Momentarily ignoring the threat of being overrun, Cade used the butt stock of his carbine to pound on the weakened semi-circle over his head.

  The combined weight of the zombies caused the RV to wobble on its springs. Cade was still trying to widen his escape hatch when he noticed the side door beginning to buckle inward. The interior of the RV began to heat up as the first streamers of light from the rising sun found their way inside.

  It took a couple of minutes and a lot more rapid bashing with his gun until the aluminum finally weakened enough so that it could be bent outward.

  Cad
e threw his carbine out onto the roof and pulled himself up; mindful of the sharp edges. Everywhere he looked the creatures were five deep. It was creepy being only ten feet from a hundred walking dead. Cade shakily got to his feet, ran the length of the RV and scrabbled up the porch roof towards the open window.

  Daymon’s outstretched hand took the rifle and Hoss pulled the winded man into the house.

  “What happened?” Daymon inquired.

  Peeling off the drenched tracksuit, Cade answered matter-of-factly, “Operator failure.” The icy tone in his voice indicated that the topic wasn’t up for discussion.

  Cade thought it selfish on his part, but Brook and Raven were the only two people in the world that he needed to be responsible for, yet somehow he kept finding himself in the company of others.

  ***

  The first zombies to breach the RV were quickly crushed to the floor. Like Black Friday at the Wal-Mart, the second wave of surging corpses crawled atop the pile, found the path of least resistance, and began pouring through the hole in the roof.

  One of the zombies became lodged in the opening, his lower extremities, still half inside the vehicle were sheared off by the crushing throng below. Now sans his lower half, the little monster clawed his way forward. The slick blood trail flowing from his shredded abdomen travelled down the shingles and into the rain gutter.

  “Kill the thing already,” Hoss screamed. The high pitched sound belied his large stature.

  Cade leveled his carbine and shot the crawler in the eye.

  “Oh my God, were fucked now.”

  Cade didn’t think it was possible, but the words spewing from the lawyer came out an octave or two higher than usual.

  Daymon took his eyes off of the advancing ghouls, “Get ahold of yourself dude,” he had had about enough. “All of your girlish crying is embarrassing.”

  More zombies poured from the hole and struggled up the blood slickened pitch.

  Daymon took aim with the Glock and was firing rapidly into the crowd, he was scoring clean headshots but still the zombies kept up their forward progress.

  Cade dropped a number of undead with his carbine; he had to make them all count because his last magazine was in the M4.

  The dead were falling and sliding off of the roof, only to be quickly replaced by more of the flesh-eaters. Unexpectedly the Glock locked open, and before Daymon could reload the monsters were at the windowsill.

  He dropped the pistol, slammed the window shut and quickly threw the lock. The ghouls were now hammering on the glass and trying their best to get inside.

  “How are we going to get out of this one?” Daymon asked, looking at Cade for answers.

  Cade knew that the only place they would be safe was the attic. Looking up he recognized the outline of the recessed, pull-down stairs. The trick was going to be actually getting ahold of the handle. He jumped trying to reach it, but came up a couple of inches shy.

  Hoss finally got ahold of himself, “Get on my back.”

  Cade tried to ignore the lawyer’s hairiness as he climbed onto his shoulders. Hoss nearly toppled over when he stood up but Cade quickly braced them by putting a hand on the wall. He stretched his arm as far as he could and grabbed the handle.

  “I’ve got it...let me down.”

  Hoss took it literally and walked from under the operator’s suspended body.

  Cade’s weight was more than enough to unfurl the folding steps, he fell faster than he anticipated and hit the floor with a bang, square on his tailbone. The ladder telescoped to its full extension leaving the last rung nearly touching the tip of his nose. Flat on his back, he stared up into the marginal safety of the attic, while dust and tufts of insulation rained down around him.

  “That looked painful,” Hoss said, shooing dust particles away from his face.

  Cade ignored the smart ass comment. “Get up the stairs now.”

  Hoss reacted first. Like an elephant on a tight rope he slowly climbed up the creaking steps.

  Cade grabbed his M4 from the floor and trained it at the window. “Hurry up...between us we have roughly thirty rounds left, and there are at least a hundred of them out there.”

  Hoss cleared the top of the stairs and Daymon began his ascent.

  Cade covered the window until Daymon was in the attic and then started up himself. He was only three rungs up the ladder when the glass shattered and the zombies tumbled in. With deadly precision, the former Delta operator popped each one in the head. Their rotten bodies momentarily blocked the window, allowing Cade the time to turn and hurry the rest of the way up the flimsy steps.

  Daymon was ready, as soon as Cade was in the attic he yanked on the ladder, it folded into the closed position with a loud thump. The only light in the cramped space filtered in through the small window in the decorative dormer.

  “Where did you learn how to drive?” The question came from out of left field.

  “Stow the insults Hoss. I had every intention of getting the RV here in one piece so we all could escape our uninvited houseguests downstairs.” Cade let his gaze linger until Hoss curred out and looked away.

  “I can’t help it. The filter between my brain and mouth goes missing when I’m under great stress.”

  “If you don’t have anything to say that’s pertinent or useful then keep your mouth shut. If you fail to do so I will feed you to those things outside.” Cade’s steely glare, even in the near dark, let Hoss know that he meant business.

  Daymon went over to the other side of the attic and was inspecting the dormer window. “How are we going to get out of this one? Were trapped...we can only go as high as the rooftop.”

  “That’s where I need to be, if this is going to work,” he displayed the portable satellite phone.

  “I haven’t had cell service for five days...how is that going to help?”

  “Filter,” Daymon admonished Hoss before Cade had a chance to.

  Hoss was very close to crossing the invisible line Cade had just warned him about. It was apparent the man didn’t know how to observe or listen. How this man had passed the bar exam, let alone practiced law mystified him.

  Cade brushed the cobwebs from the window and wiped the husks of dead bugs from the sill. The dormer window was fixed in place and the only way it was going to open was by force. Once again the collapsed butt stock of the M4 came in handy. There was no more need for noise discipline. Cade relieved the window of glass, sending it showering down on the zombies below. Their raspy moans intensified as they became aware of Cade squeezing through the tiny window. The angle was steeper than the front porch but he still managed to scramble around to a safer perch.

  Cade assembled the satellite phone and again tried to raise Duncan. On the third ring someone answered and it was Duncan and his familiar southern drawl.

  Chapter 32

  Outbreak Day 6

  Camp Williams 19th Special Forces Garrison

  Draper, Utah

  Duncan Winters awoke from one of his famous nightmares. He hadn’t had a Nam nightmare since the early eighties and this one didn’t feature old Victor Charlie. The young men he had watched climb onto his Huey, full of so much bravado-with a healthy dose of fear thrown in-only to return in a muddy body bag, hadn’t even made a cameo. These new nightmares featured walking corpses, dead kids that he hadn’t gotten to know and endless running. These new nightmares were still front and center the moment he awoke.

  Duncan donned his fatigues and splashed his face with cold water. Shaving was out of the question. These days he loathed looking into the mirror. The man who peered back had suddenly aged ten years in only a week. He wore his boonie hat pulled down low over his forehead to avoid eye contact-he didn’t want to get to know anyone; because lately, all of his new acquaintances were prone to dying.

  Before he exited his sleeping quarters, he made it a point to take his weapon. The former Army aviator went nowhere without his stubby 12 gauge combat shotgun.

  Only two steps out of the door he rec
ognized the unmistakable report of a MK-19 grenade launcher. The rapid, thwomp-thwomp-thwomp, the 40 mm shells made as they left the barrel was unmistakable.

  “What’s happening?” Duncan asked a half dressed soldier, obviously on his way to the action.

  “The base is being overrun,” said the baby faced soldier, his voice trailing off as he continued running towards the action.

  Duncan watched the man, one hand held up his unbuttoned pants and the other carried a rifle.

  It was a miracle that Duncan had even heard the portable sat phone ringing. He instantly set his weapon aside and frantically felt himself up with both hands searching for the device. After the quick pat down he retrieved the phone from his thigh pocket.

  “Duncan here,” he strained to hear the voice on the other end.

  “Prairie Fire, Prairie Fire, Duncan it’s Cade, coordinates to follow.”

  Duncan knew the term Prairie Fire from his time serving in Vietnam. It meant one or more of three things: One, you are in contact with a much larger or superior force. Two, you are completely surrounded or will be. Three, death is imminent. He hoped for Cade’s sake that it wasn’t the latter.

  “Copy that, standing by.” Once again Duncan searched his pockets, looking for something to write with. A good aviator always carried a pen. He groped around and finally found a big hunk of white chalk and his well used Sharpie. Meanwhile, Cade had already begun reciting the GPS coordinates.

  “Wait one, I wasn’t prepared...can you please start over?”

  “Copy that,” Cade’s voice sounded tinny and machine like on the other end. “Coordinates are, 40 degrees, 28 minutes and 3 seconds north. 109 degrees, 55 minutes and 47 seconds west. I’m currently trapped on the roof of a two story house. How copy?”

  Duncan scribbled the numbers on his fatigue pants and then repeated them to his friend. He could hear other voices in the background as well as the recognizable sounds of the dead. Cade confirmed the numbers repeated back to him were correct and added, “Look for purple smoke.”

  “Copy that amigo. I got myself a little Prairie Fire smoldering here.” The aviator retrieved his weapon and headed for the parade ground where the lone Black Hawk sat.