Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  “Means to an end. Tice had nothing to do with the omission ... lie, whatever you want to call it. He was a good operator. For a spook.”

  Nash smiled.

  “For what it’s worth,” added Cade. “I’m sorry.”

  “Is this Daymon guy the reason you’re leaving again?” asked Nash, shaking her head subtly.

  “In a roundabout way. He’ll be at the place where I’m going. Plus there is another guy there who I owe a great deal of gratitude to. He helped me reunite with Brook and Raven. They’re both holed up in a compound in Utah with some others.” Cade paused, thinking. “It’s somewhere near Eden, which is outside of Ogden.” He passed her an envelope with the GPS numbers scrawled on the outside. “I figure me and Brook and Raven can stop off there and resupply and recharge the batteries. Maybe pay it forward a little, helping them fortify their defenses while we’re there ... if they’ll accept my help. Pretty self-sufficient group of folks from what I’ve seen so far.”

  “So we’re talking about people who were mere strangers to you three weeks ago”—she flipped open the laptop sitting to her right, powered it up, and cast a steely gaze across the desk—“and that’s where your allegiance lies now?”

  “No, Freda. Like always, it begins and ends with my family. And I don’t think I need to impress the importance of family upon you.”

  Nash grimaced. “No you don’t, Cade Grayson. No you don’t,” she said, voice wavering. “I wish I had balls the size of yours three weeks ago. If I did then I would have dropped everything at once and commandeered a bird and went cross country and rescued Nadia. Hell, California was a shitshow all up and down the coast, but the area around USC wasn’t that far gone when the Joint Chiefs stopped issuing orders. I could have done something for her without repercussions. I should have lifted a finger. But I didn’t. I was caught wearing two hats. One of a worried mom and the other of a patriotic Air Force lifer. We both know which hat I discarded.”

  “Hindsight’s twenty-twenty, Freda. If you knew how bad things were going to get out there, I’m sure you’d have been on that plane.”

  “I did know, Cade. I had a bird’s eye view as the largest cities in China fell. I called around looking for her but got no answer. Should have left then ... but didn’t. Then I watched the voracious dead march across the border and set India on fire with the Omega virus. Then there was the limited nuclear exchange between them and Pakistan. Kashmir was no longer the issue ... it was the twenty million infected Indians storming across. Russia, the U.K., France, Germany, they fell like dominos. I still didn’t lift a finger to find her.”

  A flash of heat lightning winked outside the window, illuminating the dusty horizontal slats behind Nash’s head. A tick later thunder boomed and crackled, the clouds overhead colliding like runaway freight trains.

  Nash took a deep breath and said, “As long as we’re coming clean”—the look of curiosity reappeared on Cade’s face—“let me tell you what really happened after the crash. It’s been eating away at me.” She cleared her throat. Dabbed a tissue against her eyes, wiping away the tears, then went on, “When the satellite finally came on station over South Dakota—”

  Cade interrupted. “Draper,” he said.

  “After One-One missed two radio checks and went silent, I thought the worst. Shrill went the other way, chalking it up to comms failure.”

  “He always has been a glass-half-full kind of guy.”

  “At any rate, we agreed on one thing. We both decided to focus on recovering the Osprey and the scientists who were the sole reason we went into Canada in the first place. They don’t get back here, then there’s no chance of replicating Fuentes’s antiserum.”

  “Agreed. So you called off the Hercules after hearing their description of the wreckage. Is that the decision you made?”

  Nash said nothing.

  “I hope so, because it was the correct decision. I’m going to put myself in your shoes,” said Cade. “Jedi One-One had been radio silent for some time. You’re waiting for your satellite window to open up, but before it does Dover brings Oil Can Five-Five on station. Is that correct so far? Am I leaving anything out?”

  “Correct,” said Nash, averting her eyes.

  “And when the Herc picks up the burning wreckage and saw no obvious signs of life and then the sat feed also confirmed this, which was because we were already on the move, you took that available intel and made a hard and fast—albeit difficult—decision to have Oil Can RTB.”

  She grimaced. Said, “Correct.”

  “Major, you made the right call so stop beating yourself up over it.”

  “No,” she said shaking her head. “If I would have turned the Osprey around right away they would have heard the dustoff call and General Gaines might still be alive today. Hell, I passed on a second chance to turn Ripley around when Oil Can called in the smoke. She could have put the Rangers aboard her bird on the ground and they would have seen the obvious signs that you fought your way out of there. Then Ripley could have aided Oil Can in the search and extracted your team and Hicks wouldn’t have gotten bit.”

  There was a long silence.

  “I let you all down.”

  “Shoulda, coulda, woulda ... didn’t. Can’t change the past.”

  “I keep repeating it though.”

  Cade shook his head. “First off, Oil Can didn’t receive the dustoff ... our radio was roached. Secondly, we’re all gonna die sometime, Freda. Some sooner than others.” He could see that though the decision Nash had made could never be reversed, the inner conflict it started was still waging a hot war within her, its collateral damage broadcast on her features. Her brow was tight and her eyes bloodshot. Her jaw had a Mount Rushmore set to it—granite and unmoving. He said, “I fucked up too. It was my call to destroy the Ghost in place. But it had unintended consequences ... drew more dead in from the interstate, forcing us to leave the scene. So my decision was the reason your satellite found no proof of life.”

  There was another long silence.

  “I accept all of the blame for leaving the crash. My decision.” He fished the envelope containing his captain’s tabs from his pocket and placed them on the desk top.

  Nash made no reply. She looked at the envelope. Looked at the laptop screen, then her gaze lifted and settled back on Cade.

  The look directed his way was one he hadn’t seen in a great while. He could almost hear the gears clicking in her head. Here it comes, he thought. He was certain a question he’d been dreading was about to be hurled his way.

  “How did the Ghost go down?”

  There was no hesitation on Cade’s part. He held his gaze locked to hers and said, “Engine failure. Due to bird strike. Just like it says in the AAR—after action report—I had Davis deliver to you.” Though it was a half-truth, he felt bad using it on Nash. She’d always been aboveboard with him. And then there was one, reverberated in his head. Ari had suffered enough loss. That it all happened during a time of war absolved him in Cade’s mind. Couldn’t fault the Night Stalker for wanting to keep his edge.

  “Engine failure, and that high above South, Dakota—”

  “Draper,” said Cade interrupting.

  “Whatever ... he couldn’t recover?” said Nash with a raised brow.

  “I’d strap into a bird with him at the controls any day.”

  “Ringing endorsement,” Nash said cryptically. “Be careful what you wish for.”

  Cade made no reply.

  Nash added, “If it’s any consolation, I didn’t ground either Ari or Dover. I wanted to but we can’t afford to have anybody on the sidelines. And that’s why I hate to see you go. But I understand. I really do.” She picked up the phone, and after a second or two had a conversation with someone on the other end of the line, telling them to bring the files pertaining to the Jackson Hole mission and a trio of encrypted sat-phones.

  “Thank you,” said Cade as soon as Nash placed the handset on the cradle.

  Swiveling the laptop
around so that the monitor faced him, she tapped the enter button which started a video playing and said, “No ... thank you.”

  ***

  Once outside the major’s office, phones in hand, Cade thought hard about what he had just witnessed on the laptop screen. Part of him was happy how it went down. The other wished it wouldn’t have been so cut and dried. Either way, he thought, game over.

  ***

  Nash closed the laptop with enough force to produce a satisfying snap. She leaned back and gazed at the photo taken on the first day of college of her and Nadia in much better times. Sane times. Happy times. Then a tear traced her cheek and she looked away, settling her eyes on the blotter in front of her. She studied the GPS coordinates for a moment, then picked up the envelope Cade had left her. She could feel through the paper something flat and square that intrigued her. She found a letter opener, sliced one end of the envelope, and dumped its contents on the desk. And once again, gazing at the Captain’s tabs laying there on the blotter, it hit her that Cade Grayson was leaving the fold again.

  Chapter 52

  Eden Compound

  After one night sleeping underground, Daymon thought he was going to go insane. Being housed in the cramped Conex container with Heidi alone would have been barely tolerable considering his mind’s near-inability to process the crushing feelings of claustrophobia. That he and Heidi were cooped up with Jenkins and Tran made the ordeal register just one step north of hell on his comfort meter. What with Jenkins farting and Tran whimpering and crying out with pain every time he coughed, sneezed, or rolled over, the odds were very low that he could make it through another twenty-four hours without murdering one or both of them.

  So he arranged the surplus wool blanket so that it covered Heidi entirely, threw his legs over the bunk’s edge, and searched the floor in the dark for his headlamp. He worked it over his dreads, cinching it tight. Flicked it on and ran the stark white beam over the floor, found his boots where he’d left them. Rounded up a shirt and the black cargo pants which were getting a little ripe and needed replacing, pulled them on and strapped on the 9mm Beretta that Duncan all but insisted he wear at all times. Careful not to jostle the love of his life, he pulled the Carhartt tee over his dreads, laced up his boots, and made his way towards the door, being mindful that its top-notch fell about forehead-high to him.

  Hearing the usual sounds coming from his left flank, he swept the lamp’s beam over Tran, who was in a deep REM sleep, eyes twitching back and forth beneath slack lids. He ducked his head and held his breath transiting the airspace near Jenkins, who was snoring away on the bunk above Tran.

  Thankful he’d given the hinges a shot of WD-40 before turning in, he swung the plate door open and stepped into the connecting container. He flicked off the headlamp and navigated the compound by the light cast from the overhead bulbs. Noting the steady purr of the entombed generators and a rustle of movement from one of the other living spaces to his left, he passed by darkened store rooms and the armory, then took a right where he ran into Phillip sitting in Logan’s usual spot, under a dim cone of light, the remnants of an MRE scattered on the desktop in front of him.

  “Heading topside?” asked Phillip through a mouthful of pound cake.

  “Too cramped to sleep.”

  “Sleep? The sun’s up.”

  “Couldn’t tell back there in the tomb.”

  Phillip swallowed, took a swig of water and said, “You’ll get used to it.”

  Daymon made no reply. Flashed the man a quick smile that said you don’t know Jack, and ducked through the doorway.

  ***

  Once outside the compound, Daymon dogged the door tight. Zombie tight, not human tight. Then he heard the metallic snick of the internal lock that told him the Phillip guy was halfway competent. He took a deep lungful of damp air and relaxed a bit with the knowledge that Heidi was safely ensconced inside and he no longer had God knows how much dirt over his head. He looked through the conifer canopy at the lightening sky. Drew in another deep breath, stretched hard, sending a popping noise up his spine. Curiosity piqued by harried voices and the occasional grunt coming from the direction of the makeshift airfield, he stowed his headlamp and moved towards the sounds slowly, letting his body become fully awake.

  He stopped just inside the tree line, cracked the top off a bottled water and finished it in two drinks, being careful not to let the plastic crackle as he sucked down the last mouthful.

  Enduring constant drips from above, he loitered under the drooping boughs and watched the activity taking place.

  With Duncan acting as supervisor, Lev, Gus, and Chief rocked the DHS Black Hawk back and forth incrementally until its wheels rolled up onto the half-inch plywood sheets they’d laid down over the wet grass. Then, like some kind of chain gang boss, Duncan began to deliver a Vietnam-era marching cadence in order to get the men working in unison.

  After a couple of minutes of watching the men slipping and sliding and wondering who the hell Ho Chi Minh was, Daymon sensed someone’s approach. He glanced over his shoulder as Logan, wearing the black bowler hat Daymon had never seen him without, materialized from the shadows, one hand held up in greeting. The fatigues he was wearing, light khaki with brown splotches and black dashes, clashed with the hat and did little to help him blend in to his surroundings.

  Following closely behind Logan were the two younger women whom Daymon had been introduced to the day before on the road outside the compound.

  Standing a few inches over 5-feet, Jamie wore black cargo pants and a long-sleeved shirt in U.S. Army woodland camouflage—an interlaced patchwork of brown, green, and black leaf-shaped patterns. Her features were strikingly sharp, angular cheek bones with a small aquiline nose set above thin, pursed lips. Her eyes, like the lock of hair snaking from under her boonie hat, were dark brown with very little of the whites showing. And cradled comfortably in the crook of one arm was an AR-15 style rifle, black, with a scope of some sort attached on the upper rail.

  Jordan, on the other hand, was far from imposing. A mere tick over 5-feet, she had soft, rose-colored cheeks and an open and inviting face. Eyes the color of glacial runoff were set closely above a slightly upturned nose. Matching her lashes and eyebrows, a shock of honey-blond hair was pulled into a short pony tail and stuck out the back of her black ball cap. A scoped bolt action rifle was slung over her shoulder, its synthetic stock done up with a woodland camouflage. Daymon was struck at once with the impression that he was in the presence of someone’s kid sister on the first day of deer season.

  “What’s the old man up to?” asked Daymon.

  Shouldering the M4, Logan replied, “He’s been talking about taking that thing back up and I think he’s finally making good on the threat.”

  “Threat?”

  “Because he’s been complaining about his vision lately. I don’t think it’s safe for him to be flying.”

  “Have you looked around lately? The dead are walking. Some murderous motherfuckers ... pardon my French, ladies,” Daymon said flashing a half smile. “With these douche bags wanting to kill you and take your compound and all of the stuff in it, I think your brother’s eyesight should be the least of your worries.”

  “We all look out for each other here,” Logan replied. He reached back and handed a fob full of keys to Jamie and nodded towards the Jackson Hole Police cruiser.

  “Duncan gave me a lift to Driggs in that helicopter. Flew it like a champ,” said Daymon.

  “Well, we are siblings. He watches my back and I watch his.”

  “Sounds like you’re watching his like a helicopter parent.”

  Logan watched the girls walk across the dew-bent grass, their passage disturbing the low-hanging mist making it swirl and eddy. “No ... I watch him like he’s all I’ve got left in this world. Because that’s the truth of the matter,” he said.

  Daymon put his hands on his hips. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “Now who sounds like the helicopter parent,” Log
an said with a grin.

  Obviously feeling rather sheepish, Daymon kicked at a blade of grass, transferring beads of dew to his boot. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

  “No worries. The old guy I was talking about around the campfire ... the prepper,” answered Logan. “We’re going to see if we can locate his bug-out retreat.”

  “You know where it’s at ... or at least the general ballpark?”

  “Within ten miles or so. There are a couple of old mining operations east of here. I figure he staked a claim on one of them. Probably locked it up with a long-term land lease before breaking ground on his compound.”

  “And you’re basing this supposition on a certain type of soil you saw on a rental tractor?”

  “I remember seeing the bright red dirt and hearing the clerk complaining about it like it happened just yesterday. And yes, I suppose I’m right about it because it’s as solid a lead as any. Like I said, this fella is one of the extreme end-of-the-world type of preppers.”

  Scratching his head, Daymon asked, “Isn’t there a National Guard armory in these parts? Wouldn’t you think there’s a better chance of finding the equipment you’re looking for there?”

  “Camp Williams south of Salt Lake is where they kept their gear and vehicles. Other than that, there are a few local garrisons scattered about,” Logan said. “But none nearby. Besides, odds are every unit went out loaded for bear when martial law was declared. Lev and Chief came upon a roadblock east of here near Woodruff. That’s where they got the pair of high-tech headsets off of a couple of dead Guardsmen. But the rest ... their weapons and ammo and medical kits had already been picked clean.”

  “You’re driving there?”

  Logan nodded towards the black and white Tahoe.

  ”Taking Jenkins up on the offer, huh?”

  Logan shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You spying for the Old Man or something?”

  “No ... just shootin' the shit, that’s all.”

  “I was surprised Jenkins offered it up,” said Logan.