Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Chapter 50

  Schriever AFB

  Cade had been awake since first light. Already he’d written the after action report for the Winnipeg mission and then, after handing it off to Airman Davis, he’d gotten a ride to the lonely corner of the airbase where Desantos and Maddox were buried and put some more of his friends and teammates into the ground.

  Now, hours later, sore and sleep-deprived, he sat on the bottom bunk adjusting the Velcro straps on the orthopedic boot Brook had scrounged up for him the night before. He strapped on the thigh holster and snugged the Glock 17 home. He looked for a handhold above his head suitable to haul himself off the bed but found nothing.

  “Raven,” he called out.

  “Yeah Dad.”

  “Will you please bring me my crutches? Your mom propped them by the door when she left.”

  Repeating something she’d no doubt heard him say to her a thousand times she called back, “You leave them laying around?”

  Cade made no reply to that. No use. Because he had no good defense.

  Max rounded the corner ahead of Raven. He came right up and sniffed the black monstrosity wrapping Cade’s ankle.

  “I’m a robot dog catcher, better watch it.” To which Max growled and backed away.

  “Where’d Mom go?”

  “Mess hall. But she said she’d send Davis to give me a ride.”

  After handing over the crutches, Raven asked, “Where are you going?”

  “Got a couple of errands to run. How about we drop you by so you can light a fire under your friends.”

  “That wouldn’t be nice,” she said, taking him a little too literally.

  “OK. Let me rephrase that,” he said as he rose unsteadily from the low-slung bunk. “So you can make sure they’re good and ready and packed when we all come by to get them later.”

  “I can do that. Can Max come?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Can I leave now, ride my bike over there?”

  Teetering on the edge of saying no, Cade said, “Yes ... if you take Max. But be careful and hurry back. I’ll leave mom a note so she doesn’t freak.”

  After clapping her hands and doing a happy dance she wheeled her bike forward. “Dad, can you get the door?”

  He creaked over to the door and held it wide as she bounced the mountain bike down both stairs. Without looking back, she straddled the bike and pedaled off towards the mess hall.

  After watching her and Max zipper down the walk he went back inside, popped a couple more Ibuprofens and laid back down, waiting for Airman Davis to arrive.

  ***

  Max ducked and dodged and nipped at the knobby tires the entire way, twice almost getting his tail caught in the whirring spokes.

  “Beat you, Max,” crowed Raven triumphantly as if Max had been privy to the challenge. “A personal best unaided by a golf cart.”

  Near her feet, Max turned a happy circle. Partly because he was a dog and had heard his name. But also there were familiar scents on the other side of the door.

  Leaning her bike against the wall beneath the silent A/C unit, she chased down Max and offered him a sausage—or health missile, as her mom referred to anything cylindrical and ultra-processed originating from the base mess hall.

  “Stay,” she said to Max. Then she climbed the steps and tapped a timid-sounding announcement on the screen door.

  A handful of seconds passed. Finally the inner door sucked inward, and Wilson hinged the outer door toward her. He looked down and then left and right, completing a ragged circle and then said to her, “What are you doing here, Raven? And where’s your mom?”

  Raven processed the questions which, if asked separately and under the right set of circumstances, would come across as fairly benign. But the way Wilson posed them—rapid-fire and sharp-of-tongue, their meaning took on an entirely different context—making the leap from caring and thoughtful to an indictment of sorts.

  “Can the inquisition wait until I’m inside?”

  There was a peal of laughter. Sasha, she thought. Wondering what kind of teenage things were going on inside brought her up on to her tippy toes in order to see past Wilson.

  “Come on in,” he said, turning sideways in the doorway.

  She walked past him and was nearly blindsided by Taryn, who had a stack of board games two-feet-high balanced precariously in her arms.

  Rushing to her aid, Raven called out, “Hold still.”

  “Thanks, said Taryn. “I’m glad you showed up.”

  “You are?” replied Raven, more than a little surprised the seemingly bad girl even knew she existed.

  “I’m so tired of losing at Monopoly to the red twins.”

  Tilting her head to see the titles, Raven said, “I’ve never played most of these.”

  “How about Candyland?”

  “Who hasn’t,” admitted Raven.

  From across the room Wilson called, “She won’t play the game I want to play. That’s why I keep reverting back to good old Monopoly and my pewter roadster.”

  “They stopped making lead toys before I was born, genius,” said Sasha.

  “Quiet, Sash ... bust it out, Tee,” he said using his new pet name for Taryn.

  Tee, thought Raven. So Taryn and Wilson were an item. At least that’s what she’d heard her mom refer to people who were dating or going steady.

  “Sit down at the table, Raven,” said Wilson. He extracted an ominous-looking black box from near the bottom of the stack. Pulled up a folding chair and sat down opposite her. “Tee ... Sash ... look who’s chicken now?” he called out.

  Raven said nothing, just watched him empty the box. Inside was a folded game board which he opened and placed flat in front of her. On the cream colored board, in a strange, old-fashioned black font, were the words Yes and No. Below the words was the entire alphabet, two slightly curved rows consisting of thirteen letters each. And strangely, below the alphabet were the words Good Bye.

  Raven asked, “What kind of game is this?”

  “Ouija,” answered Wilson as Sasha and Taryn pulled up chairs of their own.

  “What?”

  “Wee-Ja,” said Sasha, sounding it out slowly. “It’s a spooky game that supposedly lets you talk to the dead.”

  “Lots of them to talk to these days,” said Wilson, trying to be funny.

  The room went so quiet you could have heard a pin drop.

  Wilson placed a plastic spade-shaped game piece the size of a deck of cards on the board. It was white, with three casters and a plastic window she could see the game board through.

  “What’s that?” asked Raven.

  “I think it’s called a planchette. Allegedly the spirits of the dead move it around the board,” said Taryn, sounding highly skeptical.

  “Tee, you and me first,” said Wilson. He placed his fingertips gently on one side of the planchette.

  Taryn followed suit.

  “Ask a question,” he said.

  After a second’s deliberation, Taryn smirked and said, “Dad ... are you there?”

  Slowly the game piece moved away from Wilson’s corner on a diagonal trajectory. It slowed over the words Good Bye then continued upwards and onward and finally parked itself over the word Yes.

  “Shut up ...” said Sasha, her face going white.

  Taryn sat up straighter but made no reply.

  After a pause, she said, “Your turn to ask a question.”

  Wilson said, “Are we leaving today?”

  The planchette began to move towards No but reversed course and resettled over Yes.

  “Game’s broken,” quipped Sasha. “We’re never gonna leave this boring piece of asphalt.”

  “Wrong,” said Raven, shaking her head.

  Looking up from the game, Wilson said, “What do you mean?”

  “That’s why I’m here,” answered Raven. “This time we really are leaving. Dad sent me to tell you all to get ready.”

  “When are we leaving?”

/>   “Pretty soon, Tee,” said Raven, testing her item theory.

  Taryn flashed a wan smile. Tilted her head by a degree but said nothing.

  Confirmation, thought Raven.

  “We all can’t fit in one of those golf carts,” Sasha said.

  “Mom will figure out something ... she always does.”

  Looking up at Raven, Taryn said, “We’ll be ready.”

  “Raven, do you want to ask the next question?”

  Shaking her head and grabbing ahold of the door handle, Raven said, “No, Wilson ... I promised my dad I’d be right back.”

  Sasha said, “OK. We’ll see you later.”

  As Raven was closing the door on her way out she heard Taryn’s next question, but didn’t stay to see the resulting answer. Taryn had asked in a soft voice: Dad, are you still here?

  Inside the room the game piece skittered a few inches across the board towards Good Bye, but abruptly changed directions and once more stopped right over Yes. Taryn glared at Wilson.

  “I didn’t do that,” he said with a wild-eyed look, “at least not consciously.”

  Taryn pursed her lips. Said, “Besides me and Brother and Mom, what did you love the most?”

  The planchette started moving. It stopped over the letter H. Then it continued on, crossed its own path and stopped on O. Finally, in the span of three or four minutes, it had stopped and hovered over the letters, T, R, O, and D.

  After the last letter was revealed Taryn gasped and released the game piece like it had somehow burned her.

  “Hot rod?” asked Wilson.

  Taryn said nothing. She stood up, wearing a look of incredulity, and bolted for the door with Wilson calling at her to come back.

  Chapter 51

  Schriever AFB

  After five minutes had elapsed and Davis still hadn’t arrived to pick him up, Cade left his billet behind and began to walk aided by the pair of crutches.

  He’d made it a dozen yards before the Cushman, Davis at the wheel, finally rushed up on him.

  A short ride later, Davis pulled the Cushman tight to the curb just outside the glass and steel facade of the TOC. He stilled the propane engine and squirmed around, reaching into the back seat for Cade’s crutches.

  Seeing this, Cade put a hand on the airman’s shoulder, and grabbed his own walking sticks as Raven had taken to calling them. Planted his boots on the ground—one a Danner model, the other that ungainly plastic thing—and then slid off the seat and rose to standing. Wavering on the crutches, he turned his body a degree, looked over his shoulder and said, “No telling if our paths are going to cross again, so I wanted to say thank you for going above and beyond for me and my family the entire time we’ve been here. Means a lot ... especially when I was away.” He went quiet for a moment, obviously searching for the right words. “So if there’s anything I can do to repay you, just say the word.”

  “Go easy on the major, that’s all. She’s been beating herself up for failing to save her daughter, Nadia, on Z Day. For a hell of a tough lady who is used to running the show, I imagine that was a bitter pill for her to swallow.”

  “Understood,” said Cade, who wasn’t wearing a uniform for the first time in days. No rank or insignia anywhere on his person. Instead he had on tan fatigue pants and a black tee shirt. In his pants pocket were the captain’s tabs he’d ripped from his soiled uniform the night before. Those he would once again be giving back to Nash.

  Though it wasn’t customary, but because he knew Cade was leaving on another mission, Davis snapped a smart salute.

  Seeing this alone sent an impulse from Cade’s brain to his arm, and because of years and years spent giving and receiving them he almost returned the gesture. But instead he reached out—and though it felt unnatural as hell—shook the airman’s hand.

  With Davis casting a quizzical look in his direction, Cade hobbled into the low, squat building through the double doors and made his way along the warren of halls, passing a number of identical doors set into walnut-paneled walls. His crutches sounding a creaky cadence, he covered one-half of the rectanglar-shaped perimeter of the TOC’s nerve center. In his mind’s eye he could see the airmen and women on the other side of the wall, tapping away at keyboards, looking up at the multiple big screen monitors, riding herd over Nash’s diminished fleet of satellites. He arrived outside of the major’s door and listened hard.

  Nothing.

  He paused for a moment, massaging his armpits where his hundred and eighty pounds had been grinding unnaturally against the thin strip of rubber trying to pass as padding. He could feel his heartbeat throbbing unnaturally in his left ankle. He looked down at his toes, bruised black and blue, swollen and tingling. He could hear Brook’s voice in his head as he’d labored to write the after action report the night before: “Take two of these every couple of hours for the pain.” And finally, every time he’d tried to perform a task to hasten their exit, she would repeat the following ad nauseum like some kind of parrot: “Stay off your feet. Keep it elevated so the swelling stays down, and most importantly Cade Grayson, quit getting up and down.”

  But he’d recently come to find that at thirty-five years of age, the magical healing properties of youth were no longer serving him—no matter how hard he tried to follow nurse’s orders. Still smarting from a probable fracture to the nose from the ladder mishap in Hanna, and now the ankle, he was afraid someone else was going to have to do the heavy lifting, so to speak, for a couple of days. And that person was none other than Nurse Ratchett herself.

  For a full minute he stood in front of the all-too-familiar battleship-gray door, jaw set firm, hand clenching and unclenching, trying to work up the nerve to face the diminutive major for the first time since the Black Hawk down incident. Avoiding her at the sunrise funeral this morning had been easy. He had arrived late and left immediately after, blending into the crowd which had been considerably larger than when Desantos was laid to rest.

  Then he burned another minute mulling over all of the good reasons for him to be summoned here on such short notice, and could think of none. The F-650 was gassed and loaded with food and water and various other supplies. And thanks to a generous donation from Colonel Shrill and an off-the-record after-hours free pass into the base armory, he wouldn’t be wanting for weapons or ammunition for quite some time. So, in his mind, he and his family were good to go. That the kids would be accompanying them was something he was going to have to learn to accept. He’d been outvoted by the girls—Brook’s vote counting for the customary two—and if Max could have voiced his opinion it would have been a solid four-to-one margin of defeat.

  With way too many questions swirling through his mind, and looking forward to having one of them answered, he removed his ball cap and delivered three sharp raps to the door.

  “Come in, Wyatt,” came Nash’s voice, muffled by the steel core door.

  The door was unlocked. He turned the handle and pushed through elbow first, aluminum crutches banging against the frame on the way in.

  “Graceful.”

  “I try.”

  “Take a load off.”

  And he did. Thankful for the offer, he took the chair closest to the door. A decision subconscious in nature more so than tactical. He noticed it immediately for what it meant—he didn’t want to be here. And he felt a great amount of guilt for allowing Brook to think—through omission—that while she and Raven were saying goodbye to Annie and the girls he was at the TOC saying his own goodbyes.

  Twisting around, he propped the crutches against the wall. He returned forward and regarded Nash with an inquiring look.

  As if reading his mind she said, “Why am I here?” Slowly—enunciating each word.

  “I won’t lie to you,” he answered. “The thought did cross my mind.”

  “I have something I want you to see before you leave,” she said.

  “Did you find the flight recorder?”

  “No. Jedi One-One was a complete loss.”

  G
ood, thought Cade. Then, deciding to turn the tables and go on the offensive, he said, “I need to ask a favor from you before I leave.”

  She furrowed her brow and shot him a look that implied it was going to cost him. “Go on.”

  “Let me start by saying that you already know that we don’t need to play this quid-pro-quo game any longer.”

  Nash crossed her arms and swiveled her chair so that her upper body was facing away.

  Noticing the body language which screamed, I don’t like where this is headed, he stroked his ample goatee and said, “If you need me for a worthy cause, a game changer that’s on par with Slap Shot—if you locate the missing nukes for example—then I’d move heaven and earth to help find them. But we don’t need to continue this charade of chit redemption any longer. We’re both above that.”

  “And Brook?”

  “She’s squared up with you and Shrill so let’s leave her out of this.”

  There was an uneasy silence finally broken by the faraway rumble of thunder.

  Nash swiveled her chair around. Placed her hands palms down on the desk blotter. She looked Cade in the eye and said, “What do you need?”

  Cade regarded her hands which shook with a slight palsy. Then he noticed that her fingernails were chewed on, bloody around the cuticles. With downcast eyes he said, “I know how far back you and Tice went. And how closely you two worked together when the CIA was running black-ops out of Bagram. And I’m sure you’re still coming to grips with how he died. Hell, I know I am. Fucking freak accident like that. It’s all still so fresh. And that’s why I hate having to bring up his name in your presence.”

  “But?” said Nash.

  “I need you to look into the after action reports from the Jackson Hole mission.”

  “What the hell has that got to do with Tice?”

  “I gave away his sat-phone to a friend who was a great asset to us on that op. I need to know its number so I can contact him on it.”

  “The Daymon kid?”

  “You read the report?”

  “Yes. And if I remember correctly, you indicated in the report that Tice lost the phone.”