Allegiance

by Shawn Chesser

  “Whatcha got this time, Charlie?”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary... just another group of walkers,” Jenkins replied, his voice dripping with contempt.

  “They on 33... or the feeder road?”

  “Still only 33, and it’s a good thing we got ahead of them,” he added.

  Staring the former police chief directly in the eye, Daymon said softly, “It’s a good thing we got the fuck out of Jackson when we did. Are you sure you gave the locals plenty of time to escape? Did Gerald get out OK?”

  “I called on him myself. Got the feeling he was going to play captain and go down with his ship. Most of the essentials and conscripts defected overnight, and were long gone before the barrier failed. Hell, some even went during the day, openly defying their great leader.” Jenkins drew the curtain and turned, facing Daymon. “I saw this coming. Robert Christian started unraveling the second the people of Jackson stopped kissing his ass—and that was on day one. Then the shit really hit the fan when Bishop proposed blocking the passes and setting up the barricade. The truth was that the people were more afraid of the dead than anything Christian, Bishop, or his boys could do to them.”

  Silence.

  Rubbing his red-rimmed eyes, Jenkins added, “The dead won... and if I don’t go check a few of these farms around here for some kind of antibiotics... you might be joining them. I’m a country boy... you know that, Daymon,” he intoned. “So I was sitting here without my coffee and racking my brain asking myself who in the hell keeps antibiotics in the country? Then the answer came to me... a horse farm ought to have a good deal of medicine. They’re always dealing with one hoof infection after another.”

  Daymon nodded an affirmative, then slowly arose from the chair and spun it around so it faced front. It screeched on the linoleum as he parked it under the table. Before going back upstairs, Daymon gave Jenkins a firm squeeze on the shoulder. It was his way of thanking the man without saying something awkward that he might regret.

  ***

  Jenkins’s plan was simple. He decided he’d coast from the house to the gate, the Tahoe in neutral with the motor running. The idling engine wouldn’t draw much attention, he reasoned, however, he was a little concerned that the gravel crunching and popping under the off-road tires might equate to a dinner bell to the dead. If all went well he would get through the gate undetected, secure it behind him, and then glide quietly downhill until he was in their midst, then wrench the transmission into drive and speed west before the abominations knew he was even there. With any luck the monsters would follow, and would remain oblivious to the house on the hill.

  After the jarring ride downhill he parked the SUV near the gate, left the engine running, and slid from the bench seat. Boots crunching a steady cadence, he walked the dozen feet towards the stamped heavy gauge galvanized steel that had, so far, kept out the small throngs of dead traipsing the back roads of Idaho.

  Being a lifelong cynic, he guessed that whoever had put in the gate did so mainly to keep out roving salesmen hawking weatherproof aluminum siding, or the fly-by-night work crews in rattletrap trucks towing smoldering pots of black goo who came with offers to pave the driveway from road to house—at a ‘steep discount’ of course—and carrying lifetime warranties which expired the second the half-assed job was finished and money had exchanged hands. Surely the thought of an America overrun by insatiable dead never figured into the former owner’s decision-making—he was grateful for it all the same.

  As he made his way from the truck to the gate he noticed the all too familiar, sickly sweet stench of death. Craning his head, he looked up and down the road before spotting the culprit. Dragging itself along the shoulder, headed for the gate, was the most pathetic thing Charlie Jenkins had seen during his fifty-plus years on planet Earth.

  The crawler fixed its clouded orbs on the Chief’s slate-gray eyes, then a slow steady rasping sound, like a small dog working a hairball, escaped the monster’s putrid maw.

  “Talking loud... ain’t saying nothin’,” Jenkins muttered, his smartass comment punctuated with a sad chuckle, and then, as if the creature somehow knew what the words meant, or grasped inflection or tone in the meat’s voice, it repeated the plaintive, soulless sound.

  Although the zombie was but a third of its former human self, devoid of everything navel south and trailing yellowed membrane that had once contained its internal organs, somehow its scrabbling fingernails found purchase and it inched forward, a stalwart determination to feed, its driving force.

  Charlie had no idea why he was having a one-sided conversation with the writhing mass of carrion. Maybe, he guessed, two days cooped up in a rural farmhouse with a man of few words and a young woman of even fewer—who he feared had a crushed voice box—was beginning to take its toll. In fact, he had spent the last two days virtually alone in his head thinking about his wife’s corpse rotting away in the bathtub in his house on the west side of Driggs, and mourning for his daughter whom he hadn’t heard from since the first days of the Omega outbreak. He looked at the pathetic creature and a tear traced his cheek as he considered the possibility she was no different than the hissing crawler he was about to dispatch.

  As he unchained the gate, and watched the zombie watching him, he realized he had clipped the formerly ambulatory corpse with the Tahoe two days prior. “Persistent one, ain’t you?” he said, clucking his tongue.

  That the thing had tenaciously clawed its way along the blacktop, following the vehicle that ran it down, scared the bejeezus out of him.

  He wondered whether or not the dead had the dexterity to uncoil a triple-wound length of chain as he swung the gate wide. Then he made a mental note to keep a look out for a lock to replace the one he had been forced to lop off in order to gain access to the property days earlier.

  After being conscripted by Ian Bishop, disgraced former Navy SEAL and leader of a mercenary force that had descended onto Jackson Hole, Jenkins hadn’t had much time to contemplate what the walking dead might or might not be capable of. During the first two weeks of the zombie apocalypse, his sole job had been to watch over the hard drinking local population of Essentials, the men and women who, because of their individual skill sets, had been forced by Robert Christian’s king-like decree to stay and contribute against their will.

  The time and energy it had taken for him to keep them in line, while walking on egg shells so as not to rile the crazy man, afforded him little time to dwell on the what-ifs and shoulda-dones.

  He looped the chain around the gate and post. “That oughta hold,” he said. “And you, my creepy crawler, what to do with you?”

  The creature hissed. Still a good distance away, it posed no threat so Jenkins made an addendum to his earlier mental note: he’d take care of the pitiful wretch when he came back. He had no doubt it would still be here—he only hoped more wouldn’t show up.

  Chapter 5

  Outbreak - Day 15

  Southwest of Logan Winters’s Compound

  Eden, Utah

  Thirty minutes of his life had ticked away since Duncan wheeled the SUV from the Eden compound’s hidden entrance onto State Route 39. And in that span of time, as he drove west, his passenger talked about his upbringing from day one and shared details about every job he’d held since ten years of age—regardless of pay or tenure.

  Finally, after Phillip had seemingly run out of minutiae to talk about, Duncan enjoyed the silence while contemplating the motor-mouth’s murder.

  “Where are we headed, Sir?” Phillip asked.

  It was the fifth time in as many minutes the swarthy-faced middle-aged fella had called him sir. Duncan was beginning to think he had been knighted but had somehow slept through the ceremony, and at any moment his southern drawl was going to disappear and he’d revert to the prim and proper syntax of the Queen’s English.

  “West by southwest,” Duncan replied between clenched teeth. Thankfully he still sounded like his normal self.

  “We’re going to Ogden?” Phil
said, sounding quite surprised.

  “Not all the way to Ogden. That would be like signing our own death warrant. No, I just want to see what kinda shape Huntsville is in. Maybe we’ll skirt the reservoir and do a little foraging.”

  Outside the Toyota’s gray-tinted windows the encroaching forest blasted by, giving way intermittently to flashes of fenced-in range before plunging them back into tree-flanked shadow.

  “Huntsville was in bad shape,” Phillip proffered. “When me and Ed rolled through a couple of days after the shit hit the fan, the rotters were everywhere. Buildings burning. People looting. Heard a fair amount of shooting as well.”

  Sorry I mentioned it, Duncan thought to himself. The situation he had gotten himself into brought to mind the car scene in the movie Fargo where Steve Buscemi’s character Carl Showalter had lost his cool because the silent, stone-faced driver Gaear, who was also his partner in crime, would not engage in the trivial never-ending conversation during the long road trip. And if Duncan’s memory served, by the end of that movie, motor-mouth Carl had met the sharp end of a fire axe before finally ending up in the wood chipper as the credits rolled. Thus, by droning on, Phillip was doing himself no favors.

  As they neared Huntsville, the winding blacktop took them past a handful of seemingly deserted farmhouses standing sentinel over rolling hills. Then the trees thinned and the landscape turned khaki, and the rolling hills were replaced by a long narrow valley with a looming hill at the far end.

  As the air inside the truck got warmer in relation to the sun’s upward climb, Phillip prattled on while Duncan sharpened the axe in his mind. The Vietnam-era aviator remained silent until a sign reading, Huntsville, Population 608, flashed by.

  Looking over at Phillip, Duncan said, “Six hundred souls... better stay frosty.”

  On the right, a burnt-to-the-ground gas station flicked by, nothing left of it save for the pumps’ skeletal steel frames and a familiar yellow and red Shell sign. Duncan felt the transmission downshift as the three and a half ton Toyota took on the substantial climb. Then, as the top neared, Duncan had to swerve to miss a lone shambler. Looking in the side mirror and seeing the gaunt form spin and fall face first, the victim of its own failed motor skills, brought a trace of a smile to his lips.

  As soon as the Toyota reached the apex, Duncan noticed a ghastly scene a mile or so away on the road below. Without a moment’s hesitation he stabbed the brakes, slewing the truck slightly sideways, and then changed gears and reversed until the big white SUV was completely hidden behind the crest of the hill. No sense in crashing the party below, he reasoned. At least not without first knowing who was in attendance.

  Duncan wedged the parking brake and slipped the binoculars around his neck. He nudged the door open with his boot, and slid from the driver’s seat. “Come with me Phillip,” he said as he grabbed his stubby shotgun.

  “Yes Sir,” replied Phillip as he clambered onto the road, binoculars in one hand, carbine in the other.

  In a half crouch, Duncan deliberately made his way to the hill’s crest. “Move slowly and keep your head down. Do not provide a silhouette for anyone to take a shot at,” he called out over his shoulder.

  “Got it,” Phillip replied.

  As soon as Duncan reached the roadside ditch he went to all fours, then laid flat. He shimmied forward until he could see the entire valley to the fore. The Wasatch Mountains formed a picket in the background while Huntsville and the Pineview reservoir were evident in the foreground—the latter sparkling like a diamond tiara above the town.

  He braced his shoulder against a gnarled wooden fencepost and took a long look through his Bushnells, walking them slowly from left to right before returning them to center in order to scrutinize the carnage in the middle of the road. From roughly a mile out, the 10-power binoculars brought things into sharp focus. At the bottom of the grade, where the countryside flattened, a military Humvee protruded from the roadside ditch. In the foreground, a flock of blackbirds, sun glinting from their blued feathers, flapped and jostled, competing to feed on a dozen naked corpses. The scene was like something straight out of a war zone. Hell, thought Duncan. With zombies everywhere, what didn’t resemble a war zone these days?

  When Phillip made it to Duncan’s side he leaned in and whispered, “Whatcha make of it Sir?”

  Duncan said nothing and continued glassing forward. His trained eye told him that the black Rorschach patterns painting the gray roadway were spilled blood, and the fact that the pools were no longer reflecting the sun meant they must have dried some time ago.

  “Nothing moving down there ‘cept the birds. Still, I want to get a closer look at that vehicle before we make a run at Huntsville.”

  “Who do you think did them in, Sir?”

  “No telling ‘til we get closer. But the one thing I know for certain,” Duncan said darkly. “The two of us are no match for whoever killed those soldiers.”

  “What do we do now Sir?” Phillip asked.

  Having had his fill of being called sir, Duncan bristled visibly. He cast a glare at Phillip, who was surveying the scene below through binoculars of his own. “We go check it out. Haven’t you seen enough, Phillip?” he asked.

  “Too much,” answered Phillip. He lowered the binoculars and shifted his gaze to Duncan. “Sir... I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “A little fear is a good thing, Phillip. It keeps us sharp.” Duncan rolled over, got to his knees, and stood with an audible grunt.

  Nodding in agreement, Phillip rose and without saying a word scooped up his carbine, trotted to the Toyota and clambered aboard.

  Before climbing behind the wheel Duncan looked down the hill at the zombie he had nearly clipped. It had recovered fully and was laboriously inching its way uphill towards them. Then he looked at Phillip, who, judging by the look on his face, was formulating yet another question.

  Why me? Duncan thought as he unslung his shotgun and strode purposefully down the hill. The female creature raised its arms and hissed as he closed in from the high ground.

  Utilizing the flip-down vanity mirror on the back of the visor, Phillip watched the melee from the Cruiser’s finely leathered confines.

  Duncan stopped just outside of the rotter’s reach, leveled his weapon, and jabbed the barrel into its chest. He wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger, but couldn’t risk the unwanted attention it would bring. Instead, he backed off, creating a yard of separation, flipped the gun around, and swung for the upper decks. The first blow to the head resounded with an earsplitting crack, knocking the shambler to the ground. Duncan stepped closer before it could rise, and with a chopping motion brought the shotgun down repeatedly on top of its head.

  One less to worry about, Duncan told himself as he dragged the dead weight off the road. He wiped the shotgun off in the knee-high grass and trudged back to the truck.

  “Holy shit,” Phillip blurted the second Duncan slid behind the wheel. “What was that all about? Am I getting on your nerves or something? ‘Cause if I am I can put a lid on it. Or shut my trap. Or stow it Vera... I’ve heard ‘em all.”

  Duncan took a deep cleansing breath, eased the brake off, and popped the rig into drive. He crested the hilltop once again and started the long coast downhill, riding the brakes a little, keeping his speed under twenty-five. “No,” he lied. “I didn’t want to have to worry about accidently hitting the thing on the return trip.”

  “Good thinking, Sir,” said Phillip.

  Partway down the hill, Duncan stopped the Land Cruiser on the center line, turned and said, “Phillip, you seen the movie Fargo?”

  “No, I haven’t. Why?”

  “Never mind,” said Duncan. He figured after they checked out the Humvee and got back on the road he’d have a chat with Phillip. And if that didn’t work, he’d sacrifice one of his socks. But, one way or another, their drive to the compound would be in silence.

  Chapter 6

  Outbreak - Day 15

  Schriever Mess Hal
l

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  Raven’s breakfast consisted of tepid, over-sweetened oatmeal and a glass of flavorless powdered milk that had all the viscosity of air. How anyone choked the stuff down was beyond her comprehension.

  Skipping the brown morass being passed off as hot cereal, Brook opted to drink her breakfast. She sipped at the steaming mug filled with what Cade liked to call “Schriever’s finest brown water,” while her daughter worried the bowl of oatmeal, concentrating intently on what looked to Brook like an intense game of stand the spoon up.

  Looking around the mess hall, she noticed that the place was nearly empty. Gone were the civilians who’d made the room full of narrow tables and benches a pain to navigate, clogging the place up with their disorderly back-and-forth forays through the chow line.

  Suddenly she wondered why the food she had helped liberate and bring back to Schriever wasn’t being served. Surely all of the Pop Tarts hadn’t been consumed already. Then, for a New York second, she entertained the idea of going around the end of the steam table, strutting confidently behind the three-man crew, making her way to the dry storage and taking what she had risked her life to help procure.

  Though the look on Raven’s face would have been priceless, thankfully the thought was fleeting and gone before Brook acted. For the life of her she couldn’t put a finger on why she was obsessing about Pop Tarts. The problem had roots elsewhere, and this was how it had started the last time—before she had gone and begged Colonel Shrill to allow her to tag along on the food run. Only that time her ire had been directed first at her husband, who was already onboard a helicopter and halfway to Jackson Hole, and then she had redirected that anger and taken it out on the inanimate objects in the Grayson billet while Raven looked on in horror.

  But that small itch needed to be scratched again. The little imp was sitting on her shoulder telling her how exhilarating it was on the outside, and in less than twenty-four hours—if Mister Murphy didn’t intervene—she would be getting her wish. For better or for worse, she and her family would be together without extraneous forces poking their noses in where they didn’t belong. In a nutshell, the whole wide world awaited them outside the wire.