Allegiance

by Shawn Chesser

  “Copy that,” Lev whispered. He pushed forward, slowly, cautiously. Practicing perfect noise discipline, he parted a thicket of waist high ferns and took a knee. He found himself very close to the house. Only a hundred feet separated his place of concealment and the scrappy-looking men who were apparently guarding the back door.

  ***

  After picking a spot between two closely spaced medium-sized pines where he could remain standing yet would not produce a silhouette, Chief glassed the scene two hundred yards distant.

  There looked to be some sort of standoff taking place at the Gudsons’. Parked haphazardly, more than a dozen pickups and SUVs choked the gravel drive and occupied every square inch of the expansive front lawn. He could also hear the sounds of gnashing gearboxes and working engines belonging to an unknown number of vehicles still navigating the road somewhere out of sight. Milling about amongst the sea of glass and sheet metal, at least two dozen heavily armed men waited, guns wavering menacingly.

  A man stood out from the rest. Not because of his stature or hair style or identifiable clothing. He was average height, of average build, and was stuck at birth with an impossibly thin face that came to a point where his sharp nose met with a severe overbite. The thing Chief noticed first was how the others deferred to the smaller man—gave him room to move freely—their body language said it all: the rat-faced Caucasian was in charge and the million dollar question was: Why?

  Bad guys choose their Alpha leaders differently than real world folks. A piece of paper trumpeting a course of studies completion didn’t mean shit. Who you knew... ditto. Usually a rise to power had to do with the severity and cold blooded nature of the crime committed while on the outside. Or the trail of shanked bodies and bloodied hands incurred, without getting pinched, while on the inside. Chief had had contact with many men who had risen to Rat Face’s apparent position—up close and way too personal—inside the walls of Northern California’s Pelican Bay supermax prison.

  Chief panned the binoculars, taking in the Gudsons’ home. It was a dingy blue two-story affair, and, like most rural houses built near the turn of the century, lacked any unnecessary architectural detailing. No dental molding, fancy wood scrollwork, or ornate columns gussied up the place—this was not a painted lady in San Francisco—it was strictly an honest workingman’s abode in rural Utah surrounded by muddy vehicles and hard looking road dogs.

  Hosting a pair of empty rocking chairs, a sloping covered porch that had obviously seen its share of inclement weather wrapped around, stretching toward the backyard where well used plastic playground equipment cooked in the high noon sun. Chief’s eyes took in the peripheral details, then lingered on each window searching for movement. The shades at ground level were drawn, but on the second floor they were open revealing only shadows. Designed to provide light for the attic before electric lines stretched to the rural areas, several multi-windowed gables protruded from the roof in front of the house. A perfect place to remain concealed and observe, Chief thought to himself.

  Meanwhile, in the front yard car park, Rat Face strutted around waving a chromed semi-automatic pistol in the faces of his crew, and appeared to be enjoying immensely his position of authority.

  Lev’s voice sounded in Chief’s ear and a brief flurry of movement caught his eye as a crouching figure passed in front of an uppermost window. “I have six tangos at the rear of the house,” Lev stated, “and if the Gudsons are inside the house they won’t stand a chance against the guys I’m looking at.”

  “Can’t call in reinforcements,” Chief answered back, resignation evident in his voice. “We’re well out of radio range.”

  Lev said, “There’s gotta be something we can do.”

  Before Chief could say anything to lessen the younger man’s concern, a tinkling of glass reached his ears followed closely by the booming report of what he guessed was some type of shotgun.

  “It’s on,” Lev’s stressed voice stated coldly. “Someone just unloaded from the upper window. Dropped one of the bad guys.”

  “Hold your position.”

  No shit, thought Lev. He’d be comfortable one on one. Hell, he’d recently survived a frantic two on one gun battle at the nearby hunting cabin just days ago. But one on five—that was stretching it—even taking into consideration his combat experience earned patrolling the mean streets and alleyways of Baghdad, Ramadi, and Tikrit, the main cities bordering the infamous Sunni Triangle in Iraq.

  Before the stricken man had hit the ground, moaning, flesh bloodied and shredded from the hail of lead pellets, his buddies were unloading frantically on the upper story window. An AK-47 chattered on full auto followed by a staggered series of booms as a trio of shotguns and a long rifle entered the fray.

  “Permission to engage,” Lev pleaded as soon as the firing stopped. Waiting for Chief’s response, he remained hidden while bracketing a strapping country boy, complete with a dark beard and flannel shirt, in his crosshairs. With practiced movements the man swapped magazines, slapping a fresh one in his AK. Then, as the blue-gray cordite haze dissipated, an amplified metallic voice broke the calm.

  “Give up your guns and come out with your hands up,” echoed from the front of the house, followed by a vicious squawk of electronic feedback.

  Ignoring Lev’s request, Chief patiently waited for the situation to run its course. He knew he was powerless against the gang encircling the house. Furthermore, three tan Humvees had arrived, disgorging another half-dozen men since he and Lev split up.

  “Come out or we’ll burn the house down around you,” the scrawny leader said, speaking through a bulky front-heavy bullhorn. “I seen the swing set over there... do it for your kids. I give you my word we won’t do nothin’ to them.”

  Chief winced as Rat Face released the trigger, hurling another burst of sonic feedback at his ears. He was tempted to shoot the man for that simple transgression, let alone what he feared was about to befall anyone who willingly exited the farmhouse.

  “What’s going on up there?” Lev asked breathlessly.

  “Stand down,” Chief answered. “I’ve got nearly thirty bodies up here now.”

  Silence.

  “Lev, you copy?”

  More silence.

  Better not, Chief thought to himself. You’ll get us both killed.

  The screen door opened on unoiled hinges, announcing shrilly to everyone present that the marauders had won.

  “The gun first,” Rat Face reminded whoever was about to emerge through the front door.

  His men drew in around him, their sneering faces and black weapons like pirates waiting to board a defeated Man-O-War.

  “Five coming your way carrying one wounded,” Lev blurted.

  Relieved to hear Lev’s voice and grateful that the younger man had wisely decided against taking matters into his own hands, Chief whispered, “Roger.”

  Ten long seconds passed and then someone slid a shotgun with its breach cracked open, butt stock first from within the shadowy doorway. Next, a man who Chief guessed to be Mister Gudson cautiously stepped over the scattergun and into the light.

  “Keep them up,” Rat Face ordered, his chest heaving from the adrenaline burst. “The rest of you... come out or Pops gets popped.” He belly-laughed at his funny and the bullhorn added its own feedback. “Or if you don’t give a shit about him, we can send a couple of zombies in to flush you out.”

  His eyes darting about crazily and gasping for breath, the middle-aged man fell to his knees, pleading for the lives of his loved ones, offering to trade his own and every worldly possession for a shred of mercy.

  With a casual wave Rat Face ushered two of his men forward.

  As Gudson’s voice rose to a crescendo, a chatter of words blending together unintelligibly, the screen behind him creaked open and one by one his family emerged. A young boy, perhaps ten or eleven Chief guessed, trudged out, shoulders slumped and shaking with fear. Mom was next. She was fairly attractive, probably closer to fifty than forty. Her
brunette hair fell around her face, framing an expression of complete and utter defeat.

  The girl came into view at the same time the two gun-toting assholes mounted the porch, zip-ties in hand. She was the spitting image of her mom, only thirty years younger. Probably too young to drive but, certainly in the bandits’ one-track minds, she was mature enough for other things.

  Depositing the bullhorn on the hood of the nearest vehicle, the scrawny leader crabbed between two Jeeps and made his way to the porch, a pronounced pep in his step.

  Though he knew Lev was returning to this position, Chief sensed the camouflage-clad man well before he came low crawling from cover. The sixth sense had been a welcome and constant companion since he was a young boy, an innate ability that had saved his life more than once.

  “First class shit show happening down there,” Lev intoned as he formed up next to Chief.

  “Nothing we can do... right now,” Chief replied, removing the binoculars and fixing a gaze on Lev, who understood fully what ‘right now’ implied.

  Having composed himself somewhat, Mister Gudson mouthed a few silent words, embraced his kids, kissed them both on the forehead, and then brought his wife into the fold.

  Though he couldn’t hear what was being said, and reading lips was out of the question due to the angle, Chief could tell by the man’s expression and body language that he was saying his final good byes. Then, with painfully slow movements, he straightened and turned towards the henchmen. In seconds he was trussed and had been dragged down the stairs and over to the lawn, his knees carving dusty furrows in the gravel.

  Lev, who had been watching through the scope affixed to his M4, stated in a monotone voice, “I think we are about to witness an execution.”

  “Nothing we can do,” Chief reasserted.

  Ignoring the dad, Rat Face vaulted the stairs and stopped directly in front of the remaining three Gudsons. After running his hands over the women, giving the younger of them a much more thorough inspection, he barked orders to several of his men. Then he about-faced and descended the stairs two at a time.

  Next, he strode towards the prostrate Gudson, pulled the pistol from his waistband, and without deliberation shot him behind the ear.

  As the lone shot echoed off the house and through the clearing, mom and daughter began to scream. They were quickly separated and cuffed, arms bound tightly behind them, then escorted to a white van where they were unceremoniously thrown into the back.

  The boy, now alone on the porch, sobbed silently his body wracked by tremors.

  Once again Rat Face made his way to the porch. He intertwined thin fingers into the kid’s straw-colored hair, forcing him to a kneeling position. “Like father like son,” he said, his voice booming over the heads of his men before reaching Chief’s position.

  Chief knew what was coming next but failed to divert his eyes. A glint of sun off steel preceded the crimson torrent as the killer drew a wicked looking blade across the boy’s pallid neck.

  A leader who is not afraid to get his hands bloody, Chief thought, fighting off the bile rising in his throat. He had seen them before on the inside and they were the worst of their kind. The rare human animal who enjoyed and fed off of the pain and suffering of others.

  “One less mouth to feed,” the man bellowed as he held the convulsing body upright. Aerated blood bubbled and frothed from the gaping second mouth, while, like a baby bird trying to leave the nest for the first time, the boy weakly beat the air with his arms.

  Rat Face released the handful of hair, letting the corpse pancake onto the porch face first, then wiped his knife on the boy’s tee shirt. “Search the house top to bottom!” he screamed, corded muscles bulging in his neck.

  Like army ants the men stormed the house, and in a matter of minutes the Gudsons’ considerable pantry had been emptied of food. One man emerged, brandishing the only firearms in the house: both pistols of some kind.

  War whoops resounded, engines started and the vehicles began a clumsy dance, drivers backing and wheeling, trying to extricate their rigs.

  One at a time the vehicles rolled down the gravel drive and were soon swallowed up by the forest.

  Incredulous, Lev said, “That’s some of the worst shit I’ve ever seen. And believe me... I’ve seen some shit.”

  “It’s a close second for me,” whispered Chief.

  With a sideways look as the white van disappeared from sight, Lev lobbied to go down and make sure the two males were indeed dead.

  “No need,” replied Chief.

  “Why’s that?”

  “No way we can help them even if they’re hanging on.”

  Judging by what the animals proved they were capable of, and coupled with the blood- and gore-streaked Econoline van, Lev and Chief both arrived independently at the same conclusion: the lawless bandits who had just massacred Gudson and his boy were undoubtedly responsible for cutting the fence near SR-39 and letting the dead onto Logan’s property. Considering their numbers and their utter disregard for human life, they could not be taken lightly.

  With the exhaust notes receding into the distance and the chilling sound of Gudson’s final pleas echoing in their heads, the two men melted into the tree line. Then, after a thirty-yard hike through the dense undergrowth, Chief’s voice crackled in Lev’s earpiece. “You smell it yet?”

  “Yeah,” Lev answered crinkling his nose. “Rotters?”

  “Not exactly,” Chief said somewhat cryptically.

  Not in the mood for fun and games after what he had just witnessed, Lev muttered an expletive and pushed ahead. A moment later, after stepping over a crumbling moss-coated snag bristling with up thrust volunteers, he put his boot into the offending deer carcass.

  A snicker sounded in his earpiece. He looked up to see the grinning American Indian whom he was quickly forming a close kinship with, and then reciprocated with a reluctant stress-relieving smile of his own.

  Chapter 12

  Outbreak - Day 15

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  Brook pointed out the safety—a sliding lever above the trigger guard on the left side of the carbine—and made sure it was engaged before snugging the rifle to the girl’s shoulder.

  “Put your left hand on the front grip... like this.” She positioned Raven’s hand and then put her foot between the girl’s heels and moved her stance apart incrementally. “Does that feel stable?”

  “I guess.”

  “Good. Right before you get ready to fire, you flick off the safety... this lever here. And just before you squeeze the trigger—and I want you to squeeze it just once—you have to press the rifle tight to your shoulder and lean your body forward a tad to counter the recoil. This gun is going to pop your shoulder a bit—that’s the recoil part—but don’t worry, Mom has got your back.”

  “Do I have to...”

  “Yes you do, sweetie.”

  Raven finished her sentence. “... shoot the things?”

  “They’re not people anymore. Remember... we talked about it already. They won’t feel it and they won’t hate you for it either.”

  “How does God feel about it?” asked Raven tentatively.

  “God’s on board, sweetie,” Brook answered matter-of-factly. And deep inside their brains somewhere, they’re grateful they are not going to be walking around against their will anymore.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes sweetie, really,” Brook said. I know I would, she thought.

  “I’ll try it again... if they won’t be mad at me. You promise, Mom?”

  “I promise.”

  Brook’s reasons for bringing them to this remote part of the base were many. She had been meaning to tell Raven about her miscarriage and hadn’t found the time or the place. Also, she wanted to familiarize herself with the new equipment affixed to her rifle. The day before, Cade had had the armorer fit the M4 with an Eotech holographic optic combined with a 3x flip down magnifier. She remembered what he had said about the new set up. “The Eotec
h will be perfect for dinging Zs up close and personal. Then, with one simple motion you engage this magnifier, and voilà, you can reach out a little further. Basically you get the best of both worlds in a tidy little package,” were his exact words.

  “Now this is your sight,” Brook said to Raven, trying her best to explain it so her twelve-year-old wouldn’t become confused. “And wherever you put the red dot is where the bullet is going to hit. This thing,” she flipped the cylindrical optic mounted before the holographic sight up and then back down to demonstrate its range of motion. “It makes things that are farther away look like they are much closer.” I would have made a horrible teacher, she told herself. She hoped she hadn’t sounded condescending like Cade often did whenever he tried to school her in the matters of shooting, basic security, and situational awareness. Furthermore, she hoped she wasn’t throwing too much at her daughter at one time.

  But unfortunately, the fact that they were leaving at first light didn’t leave her with much of a choice. Besides, outside the wire, three shooters, no matter how green Raven was, would give them better odds of making it than just her and Cade.

  “Do you get how it works?” Brook asked.

  Mimicking her mom’s actions, Raven pressed her cheek to the stock and manipulated the slide out function once or twice. “Yes Mom, I see what you mean. Now can I shoot it?”

  “You’re ready?”

  “Yes Mom. Now quit asking me if I’m sure... or OK, or ready.”

  Wow, Brook thought, if this is twelve-year-old sass, what are the teen years going to throw at me? Then she remembered their current situation and the fact that every new day was going to be tougher than she and Cade could have ever imagined. A little over two weeks ago her most pressing concerns had been trivial compared to surviving the Omega outbreak. Choosing an orthodontist—hardly daunting stuff, she mused. Fearing the dreaded talk about the birds and the bees—trumped by explaining why the dead had risen and how it was now OK to put a bullet in their rotten brains. Hell, Brook thought, Raven probably knew more than she let on about reproduction anyway. Should make the concept of miscarriage easier for her to grasp though. At that, she pushed all of these troubling thoughts down inside and reminded herself that they could be dealt with after she and Raven had put a few rounds downrange. She grimaced at the wording that had involuntarily entered her stream of thought, then smiled at the realization that not only was she beginning to act like her husband, she was starting to think like him as well.