Soldier On: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  “That was close,” Cade said.

  “We’re not down yet.”

  A multitude of cars and trucks rushed by, it was like looking through a kaleidoscope filled with shiny colors. Zombies reached skyward, futilely grabbing for the falling helicopter.

  Duncan became aware of the safety barrier at the last second. The taut cable separated the northbound and southbound lanes, running parallel down the freeways grass median. A UH-60 wasn’t meant to land moving as fast as it was, but he had no alternative. Duncan thought back to his training so many years ago, the final, but very important, component to landing a helo without power is to pull as much cyclic as possible at the very last second. In theory the ship would settle, without pranging, and roll on its wheels, bleeding off any excess airspeed.

  The median blazed at them, a sharp jolt reverberated upon impact through the rigid airframe and directly up everyone’s spine.

  So much for theory, the experienced aviator thought.

  The Black Hawk bounced twice before its left wheel caught on the cable. Newton’s law reared its ugly head, for every action, it states, there is an equal and opposite reaction. The opposite reaction was not pretty. The massive Black Hawk did a one-eighty, the starboard side slamming against the cable barrier. The violence from the sudden neck-breaking halt sent every loose piece of equipment flying around the crew compartment; dangerous missiles seeking flesh and bone.

  Daymon caught a face full of Duncan’s canvas go-bag. A medical kit popped open resulting in a white explosion that filled the air with bandages and gauze.

  Vincent’s head crashed into the bulkhead, the blow temporarily knocking him out.

  After all of the kinetic energy had bled off the Black Hawk ground to a halt and made one last death rattle. Duncan was awestruck that the rotor blades hadn’t disintegrated into a million tiny pieces and some stroke of luck had kept the helicopter from rolling. White acrid smoke drifted up inside the cabin of the broken bird but thankfully no flames materialized.

  The voice of Duncan Airways invaded all but Daymon’s helmet. “Head count. Who’s still among the living?

  “Barely” said Vincent, his voice sounding weak.

  Daymon remained silent and tossed the old man’s go-bag up front to him.

  It was a miracle, Duncan thought, the shotgun strapped to it didn’t knock him out or claim a few of his teeth. Luck, it seemed, was always on Daymon’s side.

  Cade could see that the door next him was jammed shut; the helicopter had absorbed a lot of energy and settled up against the divider on his side. He unbuckled his seatbelt and armed himself with the Colt M4 before he entered the passenger compartment. He found his tactical helmet, it had been thrown around in the crash and was partially buried under bandages, gauze and medicine bottles. He put it on in place of the bulky flight helmet. Cade noticed that Vincent, now fully alert, had somehow gotten ahold of the Glock 17. Knowing full well the soldier was only a cook back at Camp Williams; Cade had to ask him some embarrassing questions. “Have you qualified with a pistol lately?”

  “It’s been a while, but the last time at the range I scored pretty well.”

  Now the hard one, Cade thought, “Have you killed a man in combat?”

  Before Vincent had a chance to answer, something fleshy impacted the starboard side. Slimy palm prints appeared, followed by the sneering face of a female zombie smacking its yellowed teeth on the glass.

  Cade singled out the former camp cook, looking him square in the face, “Don’t hesitate. Aim for the head. Most importantly, they aren’t human anymore, shoot to kill.”

  Cade recognized the unmistakable sound of a shotgun round being chambered. Without needing to look, he instinctively knew Duncan was in the fight and good to go. “Out, everyone out now,” they were in store for some running and gunning and if they didn’t find transportation quickly their day was going to end very badly.

  ***

  I-25 Twenty miles south of Denver

  Daymon was the first to open the door and set foot on the brown grass outside of the helicopter. “We’ve got company. Bring your A-game.” he bellowed, brandishing the machete in his right hand.

  Cade watched the man work, his dreadlocks whipped behind him as the deadly blade cut the air in front. In a matter of seconds four zombies lay decapitated, in a semi-circle, near Daymon’s feet.

  Cade spotted a legion of undead pressed around a livestock transporter a few hundred yards to the north; they were obviously attracted to the animals trapped inside. He could hear the sound of the hungry zombies clearly from his position. Some of them were starting to amble in their direction, drawn by the commotion of the downed Black Hawk. There were far less of the creatures to the south but Cade sensed that the noose of undead was tightening around the small group. They were caught in a catch twenty-two; for every zombie they killed, many more would be attracted by the resulting gunfire.

  Duncan discharged the twelve gauge, point blank into the walker nearest him. The moaning ghoul’s face disappeared in a viscous spray of decomposed dermis and muscle. For good measure he introduced the thing’s skull to the butt of his combat shotgun.

  “This way,” Duncan made the decision for all of them. They would be going south, and so was the situation they found themselves facing. Although he couldn’t see well enough to make out the writing on the side of the squat vehicle, he did recognize the unmistakable yellow horse drawn stagecoach above the words. It was a Wells Fargo armored truck wedged in a sea of stalled cars.

  Vincent’s pistol bucked four times, two 9 mm bullets found their mark, and two sailed high. The scrawny zombie fell to the roadway. Many more were closing in from the left.

  Cade emptied an entire magazine into the throng of undead, squeezing off well aimed single shots. The act saved Vincent’s life. Cade rammed a new mag home and implored Vincent to keep up. Both men followed the trail of dead zombies left by Duncan and his deadly accurate shotgun.

  They were getting into a rhythm and fighting as a team; whenever one of them had to reload the others would pick up the slack. Cade couldn’t help but admire the poise and grace the lanky black man exhibited as he struck down the walking dead. The fluid cuts of the razor sharp machete reminded him of the swordsmen from the late night Kung Fu movies he used to watch as a kid. Hard as it was for Cade to believe, Daymon was better with the steel blade than the crossbow.

  Zombies were falling fast. Cade was still worried that if they didn’t move it soon they would find themselves surrounded and out of ammunition.

  They covered the open ground rapidly, with Daymon in the lead. Duncan trotted in the middle of the group and Cade took the rear, keeping the walkers on their six, at arms length. Vincent was of little use, but he did show courage; a lot could be said about that.

  Daymon kicked one walker away from the back of the armored truck and lopped the top third of another’s head clean off. The skullcap, twirled through the air like a flipped coin. It landed on heads presumably, the remaining slab of frontal lobe cartwheeled through the brown grass. Daymon paused momentarily to smile at his handiwork.

  Duncan walked the perimeter of the truck, shotgun at the ready. Both the driver and passenger door were closed and locked. A dead guard, in full Wells Fargo regalia sat slumped in the driver’s seat, maggots squirmed under his exposed skin. It’s going to reek in there, Duncan thought, as a shiver of revulsion wracked his body.

  Daymon waited by the rear doors while Vincent and Duncan crawled in.

  “There’s no money in here...” Vincent said sounding truly disappointed.

  “What were you gonna spend it on...hookers and blow?” Duncan queried half-way serious.

  Duncan checked the ignition, there were no keys dangling from it. He turned his head away from the decomposing driver and drew in another lung full of semi-fresh air. The security guard had died doing his job; there was a puckered entry wound in his neck right above his Kevlar vest. The ensuing blood loss killed him and left his uniform saturated.
Fully repulsed, Duncan reached into the dead driver’s pants looking for their ticket out. He found two things in the corpse’s pockets: lint and squirming fly larvae. “We have no keys goddammit.” Duncan’s pissed off drawl echoed from the armored trucks interior.

  Cade’s attention was drawn by Duncan’s verbal outburst, as he watched; the driver’s door opened and out tumbled a bloated corpse.

  “Daymon...check the ground on that side for the keys. There is no way they up and walked off on their own.” Cade immediately regretted his last statement. He envisioned an undead Wells Fargo guard lurching around the countryside, the keys to the truck jangling away, still hooked on his belt. That was the last thing they needed.

  “Got em,” Daymon held the keys in the air and jingled them for effect. “Fuckers left em in the back door.”

  “Quit yer yappin and give them here.” Duncan was getting nervous. The mass of undead had given up on the meat in the trailer and were shuffling towards the source of the gunfire.

  Cade was putting lead downrange at the walkers. He ejected the thirty round magazine and rammed the last one in the well.

  A puff of diesel exhaust enveloped Cade. “Daymon, you ride shotgun...” Cade fired ten more rounds, only four zombies fell, “I’ll watch our six.” Cade vaulted in and sealed everyone inside.

  Daymon pinched his nose shut and climbed into the passenger seat, one long leg at a time. “Man it stinks to high heaven up in here,” his voice had taken on a Duncan-esque nasally twang, “Step on it boss.”

  Duncan reversed into a compact Hyundai, pushed it back several feet to free the armored truck. Slamming into first gear he powered the large truck around the pickup blocking them in. A sickening crunch emanated from the undercarriage, Duncan grimaced, because he knew he rolled over the guard’s body. “Sorry buddy...” Duncan truly felt bad for the man and had to vent. “For Christ’s sake, he was merely trying to do his job, in the middle of all this pandemonium; the fleeing people, zombie attacks.” Duncan pounded the steering wheel. The same steering wheel the guard clutched in his death grip. “Look at what he gets for staying the course. I can’t believe that anyone would feel the need to pop an armored car in the middle of the end times.”

  “Finished?”

  “Yes dear.” Duncan made it sound like he was answering to his angry wife.

  “Daymon...Vincent, are either one of you injured...bitten?” Cade asked.

  “Good to go,” Vincent replied.

  “I got a few scratches from the bitches...no bites though,” Daymon replied, before stating the obvious, “that’s an instant effing death warrant.”

  Duncan weaved around wrecks, hitting and pushing more out of the way than he was able to avoid. He wasn’t being shy about running over the dead. The twenty-five ton rig rolled on six wheels wrapped with bulletproof run flat tires. Duncan was confident; as long as he looked ahead and chose the right route they had a good chance of making it out alive.

  The sun dipped behind the Rocky Mountains, the complete absence of light was significant, and the high desert between Denver and Colorado Springs might as well have been the dark side of the moon.

  Duncan was dreading this moment since the crash landing, he flipped the headlights on providing the dead a beacon to hone in on visually. As if on cue a zombie high fived the window inches from his face, the hand shaped stain came along for the ride. Creeping down the freeway at ten to fifteen miles an hour with the headlights summoning the undead was extremely nerve-wracking. Like he learned to do in Nam, Duncan was starting to compartmentalize his feelings and thoughts-tucking them away in the far reaches of his mind to be dealt with later. He focused on their destination at the end of I-25.

  ***

  The armored car crept along a scant fifteen miles an hour. The sprawling campus of the darkened Air Force Academy stretched to the base of the Rockies. No incoming officer material this year, Duncan thought as the Cadet Chapel materialized from the dark, the spires stood out like obsidian skeletal fingers reaching to the heavens.

  Duncan kept up a steady pace weaving in and out of tight spots. Thank God, he thought, this isn’t a rental, as the screeching of metal on metal sounded inside the truck. It reminded him of fingernails on a chalkboard. Duncan despised the sound; the only thing worse was the fingernails of the dead scrabbling on the outside of the armored truck.

  Cade was resting his eyes and on the periphery of sleep when Vincent’s voice pulled him back.

  “Check out these things. They’re peepholes or something.” Vincent unlatched the two inch square portal nearest him and moved his face closer to peek outside.

  “Not a good idea soldier,” Cade snatched the young private by the elbow and pulled him away. One second later and he would have gotten the Three Stooges treatment.

  A single grimy finger poked through the hole and blindly rooted around.

  “Almost lost an eye there, Curly, that’s a firing port,” Cade said as he snapped the hatch shut, forcing the pasty digit to retreat.

  “Th..th..thanks...I should a known. C..c..can I shoot that nosy f..f..f.fucker” Vincent stuttered.

  Daymon sat reclined in the passenger seat with his head tilted back. His eyes were shut in an attempt to keep the monsters on the other side of the glass from becoming fodder for future nightmares. “Save the bullets Vinnie... if this truck goes tits up, we’ll need all four of them, one for each of us.”

  Chapter 34

  Outbreak Day 7

  I-25

  “Sir, we have a contact. Slow mover...looks to be paralleling I-25.”

  Staff Sergeant Brody Johnson had only been back in the states for two days; already he had seen more combat in Colorado Springs than he had in two tours in Iraq. Although he hadn’t been shot at yet, he had seen more Zs amassed in one place than he could fathom and unlike the insurgent’s shoot and scoot mentality, once they saw you, the dead were like the Eveready Bunny, they kept coming. It was a difficult transition for the hard charging young commander, but he sensed he was turning the corner.

  When they landed at Schriever there was no down time at all-he and his crew had been thrust back into action the moment their boots hit the ground. The Bradley fighting vehicle he commanded still had Middle Eastern sand stuck in every nook and cranny, the engine was running poorly and required maintenance.

  The Bradley was perched atop an elevated dirt berm inside the fencing on the northwest corner of Schriever AFB. The lone vehicle was responsible for guarding a big swath of the base. A quick reaction force standing by was ready and could assist anywhere on the perimeter they were needed.

  The staff sergeant hailed “Springs,” the new Capital of the United States. “Golem Actual, Golem Six-One here, how copy?”

  “Go ahead, Six-One.”

  “Golem Actual-be advised we have an inbound vehicle, two klicks outside of grid November-Whisky-One-Two. Vehicle appears to be a two axle delivery truck. I see three, possibly four thermal hits inside. How copy?”

  “Copy that, observe and report, Golem Actual out.”

  Golem Six-Ones gunner tracked the vehicle until it disappeared behind an obstruction. “I lost him in the clutter,” Wilkes responded sounding irritated.

  Fifty feet from the dirt berm, right outside the wire, a handful of zombies quietly milled about. The moment they noticed the vehicle commander move atop the Bradley, they started moaning.

  “When you get a clean line of sight flash them,” the track commander ordered his gunner.

  “Copy that Sir.”

  Sergeant Wilkes kept his face pressed to the optics mast. “Sir, the vehicle didn’t reappear.”

  “If memory serves-isn’t there an eighteen wheeler blocking that underpass?” commander Brody asked.

  “The engineers were worried that the supports were going to fail so they left it for the time being,” Wilkes answered.

  ***

  The survivors surged to the base on Z-day plus one, many had already been bitten and had to be quarantined. Withi
n twelve hours every one of them turned. B.J. heard second hand how hard it was on the soldiers to put thousands of them down. Many of the men recognized loved ones or members of their community, making the job all the more difficult. Over the last two days survivors had stopped showing up altogether.

  Staff Sergeant Brody Johnson felt a strong urge to go help the travellers. The human race, he thought, was quickly becoming an endangered species.

  ***

  “This is Golem Actual, Golem Six-One requesting permission to assist civilian survivors, how copy?”

  “Roger that. How many Zs are at your AO?”

  “Only fifteen, Golem Six-One out.”

  “Golem Actual, notify Golem Six-Two that you are going off base. Sit-rep every five mikes. How copy?”

  “Roger that, Golem Six-One out.

  “Wilkes, hand me up the quiet carbine.”

  The black SCAR rifle emerged butt stock first. B.J. charged the weapon and sighted on the nearest Z. He flicked off the safety and said, “Night, night,” with as much compassion as he could muster. His finger tightened on the trigger. Breathe, squeeze easy....pop. The suppressed rifle was extremely quiet; the first zombie hitting the ground drew more attention than the actual sound the kill shot made leaving the rifle.

  The staff sergeant had an excellent firing position from the Bradley cupola; one by one he sent the rest of the monsters to a final dirt nap.

  ***

  The Bradley vibrated violently one time, like a dog shaking water from its coat. The exhaust pipe belched black smoke and the engine finally turned over. A clunk from the transfer case indicated that Specialist Cooley was about to back them off of the earthen berm.

  Commander Johnson sprang from the top of the Bradley to let them through the secondary fence, the track easily negotiated the tight turn. Johnson scanned the area outside of the primary fence for ghouls, satisfied all was still clear, he opened up and followed the tracked vehicle outside of the wire. As quick as humanly possible, with imaginary zombies nipping at his heels, Johnson locked the fence up and vaulted atop his Bradley.