Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  ***

  Raven lost the first race which consisted of ten full laps around the clearing, keeping only to the beaten-down grass oval. Slightly winded and with a subtle rattle evident with each exhale, Raven dismounted her bike and began pestering Sasha for a rematch.

  Shaking her head, Sasha said, “Not yet. I need some water.”

  Raven smiled and nodded toward the crop circle where Brook was. “Follow me,” she said with a noticeable gleam in her eye.

  The girls laid their bikes down and crept to the edge of the crop circle where they covertly took a knee and peered between the stalks of grass.

  Still breathing hard, while suppressing the urge to giggle, Raven mouthed: The bear’s still sleeping.

  “You get it.”

  “No. You,” Sasha whispered.

  So Raven stepped onto the tamped down grass. Snuck up to her snoring mom and plucked a sun-warmed bottled water off the spread out sheet. Snickering, she turned slowly and, with four exaggerated high-steps, made her way back to the side of her partner in crime.

  Sasha wiped the sweat from her brow and regarded the sun which was climbing steadily towards its high noon position. She took the bottle from Raven, cracked the cap and took a long pull. Then, passing the bottle back, she whispered, “Rematch time.”

  Eden compound motor pool

  Foley drove. Not because he wanted to. On the contrary. Initially, when he’d learned they would be going in Daymon’s pick-up on account that all the gear was stored in its box, he had parked himself riding shotgun. But all that had accomplished was to warm the seat for Chief, who had insisted he was not driving.

  So when Tran balked as well, by default the former IT worker slid behind the wheel and, since his legs were nowhere near the length of Daymon’s, made the necessary adjustments to the seat and all three mirrors.

  Foley waited for the girls to zip by on their bikes, then nosed the truck up the gravel drive. At the inner fence Chief delegated the job of seeing them through to Tran. They followed the same routine at the outer gate and, while Tran was locking the gate behind them and arranging the wall of camouflage foliage, Chief hailed Seth back at the compound and Phillip who was up the hill at the over watch and informed them that he and Foley and Tran would be at the roadblock for two, maybe three hours at the most.

  Glad that the formalities were taken care of by someone other than him and coming to accept the fact that he was the new guy and thusly should do what he was told, Foley—though he’d been nearly bald since the early ’90s—decided to let his hair down a little. Smiling, he wheeled the powerful Chevy west, aimed the steel brushguard at a pair of rotters loping down the road, and tromped the gas, saying, “Let’s see what this baby will do.”

  “I wouldn’t,” warned Chief. “Gonna piss Daymon off if you break anything.”

  Tran said nothing. Just held onto the grab handle near his head and braced for impact.

  As the engine propelled the truck rapidly from a near standstill to thirty-five miles per hour, Chief was doing the same. He had his left hand splayed out on the dash and his other wrapped white-knuckle tight around the front Apillar-mounted grab-handle.

  The speedometer hit forty and Foley pinned the accelerator to the floor. There was a whine from the engine and the truck reached fifty just as it entered a stretch of the road where spring runoff had settled the rock and gravel bed which in turn caused the asphalt to take a subtle dive. At the bottom of the depression the springs went taut, pressing everyone’s butts into the seats. On the upslope the suspension unloaded and by that time the two male zombies had turned a one-eighty and brought their arms up, ready to embrace the speeding Chevy.

  Seeing visions of an infected body lodged in the windshield, legs kicking like a diver out of water, Foley blinked first. He braked hard and jinked the truck right; there was a sharp crack and the hollow thunk of cranium meeting tempered steel. Chief shook his head and grimaced as he saw the damage the glancing blow inflicted on the undead pair. One stick-thin arm trailing tendon and veins spun away towards the far ditch. The rest of the creature that had just lost the battle with the tubular grill guard hinged backwards directly into the path of the passenger-side tires. A millisecond later the front quarter panel nailed rotter number two sending it over the truck, head, heels, head, heels amidst a shower of glass from the destroyed headlight.

  Slowing the truck to thirty, Foley said accusingly, “You made me drive.” He flicked his eyes to the rearview mirror making sure the gear was intact and there were no unwanted passengers in the bed.

  Chief reached over and started the wipers spreading the clumps of brain on the windshield like a thin greasy cataract. “Juvenile move, Foley,” he said. “Hit the washer fluid.”

  As an electric pump whined somewhere under the hood and a liberal shower of blue fluid splashed the glass, Foley replied, “At least we know she’s got some giddy up.”

  The radio crackled and Phillip, who had apparently witnessed the whole thing, said, “Oooh. Daymon’s going to be pissed when he gets back.”

  Chief ignored the radio.

  Foley said nothing in his defense and after driving in silence for a few short minutes Daymon’s late summer project, a myriad of fallen trees and sharpened boughs designed to keep a large contingent of walking corpses at bay, was blocking the road dead ahead.

  “Park it pointing east,” said Chief, racking a round into his pump twelve gauge. “I’ll get the saws and spare chain. Bring all of the fuel and oil ... we’ve got a lot of work ahead of us.”

  Foley wheeled the truck around with a three-point turn and killed the engine.

  Lugging a backpack filled with food and bottled waters, Tran exited the truck through the door behind Foley’s and closed it behind him. Without a word he crossed the road, navigated the ditch, took a seat on the guardrail and waited.

  Foley donned his pack and Chief threw the chainsaw over his shoulder. They hiked across the blacktop, formed up with Tran and the three of them entered the forest heading south, perpendicular from the road. A dozen feet in, Chief hooked a right and they walked for a while, passing a long row of fresh stumps leaking sap, each one’s circumference bigger around than a wagon wheel. On their right were the expertly felled trees making up the base of the blockade.

  They walked until they heard the rasps of the dead milling about the blockade’s westernmost end where the next layer, a phalanx of mainly smaller lodge pole pines, was to be started. Lay them down like pick up sticks, interwoven. The more tangled, the better, Daymon had said at dinner the night before.

  Chief planned to work both flanks of the road, felling many of the smaller trees and leaving an interlocked layer atop the entire east-west run. The theory being that the prolific thicket of branches would inhibit the still few and far between self-aware first-turns from clawing up on each other and making their way along the top.

  At first sight of the barrier, Tran adjusted his pack and craned around Foley and asked, “What’s keeping the demons from going around ... through the forest?”

  Chief lowered the chainsaw to the ground and shrugged off his pack. Placed his shotgun within easy reach. Finally, he motioned beyond the dead crowded around the pair of SUVs abutting the barrier a dozen feet away. “This bridge spans a sixty-foot deep gorge. There are dozens of snags and impenetrable undergrowth flanking the dry riverbed down there. Any rotters that fall off end up getting trapped.”

  Tran stepped up on a fallen log to see the crossing from a better vantage point. Constructed of poured white cement and taking a gentle curve away from the break in the treed canopy, the two-lane affair looked like some kind of public works project from the ’60s. After a few seconds of scrutiny, he proffered, “What’s to stop a person from picking their way through the trees?”

  “There are no living people in Huntsville,” replied Foley.

  Chief added ominously, “But there are thousands of walking dead.”

  “And the vehicles?”

  Chief said
, “Keys are on the driver’s side rear tire. They’re gassed up and ready. Just in case we need to go to Huntsville or Eden.”

  Tran said nothing. He dumped the pack and, with the shallow exhaust burble from Chief trying to start the chainsaw exciting the dead, set off into the woods in search of dinner’s accompaniments.

  Chapter 38

  Leaving behind the southeastern corner of Zion National Park with its red rock spires and canyons harboring patches of green and rivers that from the air looked like mere trickles of water, the Ghost Hawk cut across the northwest corner of Arizona, all of sixty short miles, and then entered Nevada’s airspace with Lake Mead glittering like polished silver dead ahead.

  To Ari’s naked eye it looked as if the lake’s water level had risen. Still, there were mud flats showing near shore where hundreds of Zs had become hopelessly mired, no doubt lured there by the staggering number of personal watercraft anchored in the lake and languishing under the hot sun. On shore, walking corpses were everywhere. The boat launch beside the deserted marina was thoroughly snarled with abandoned vehicles, most hitched to empty boat trailers. And catching Cade’s eye north of there, reminiscent of the scene at the Flaming Gorge Recreational Area in Utah, was a sizeable campground bursting at the seams with tents of every size, shape, and color of the rainbow.

  Cade walked his gaze towards the lake’s southwest end and recognized the gently curved top of Hoover Dam jutting from the lake and silently holding back millions of gallons of blue-green water. That there was just a trickle spilling out the back side told him the turbines weren’t operating. Therefore the dam was not supplying electricity to Los Angeles 266 miles away.

  Lasseigne tapped the window nearest him. He said, “Check out the mound of bodies in the spillway south of the span.”

  Cross said, “I hope my eyes are deceiving me. Looks like a whole lot of dead kids down there.”

  Cade shifted his attention to the scene passing below. Running parallel left of the dam and high over the spillway was a four-lane bridge dotted with inert vehicles, most of which were crowding the railing. Nothing moved there, living or dead. He noted the mass of tangled bodies and suddenly it dawned on him what he was seeing. He thought: No better place to stop and end it all than one of the Seven Wonders of the World.

  Simultaneously coming to the same conclusion, the operators and SOAR crew went silent. For a few long seconds there was only the steady resonant whirr of the rotors and various sounds as the mechanicals did their thing behind the scenes.

  Then, for the first time since Cade came aboard, and presumably to distract everyone from dwelling on what they had just witnessed, the heavily muscled African American pilot in the left-seat uttered something not pertinent to the mission. “Who remembers this?” he said. He cleared his throat and, with his baritone voice rising a couple of octaves, went on, “Welcome everyone, I am your dam guide, Arnie.”

  “I know what movie it’s from,” said Ari, chuckling. “Hit us with another quote won’t you please, Chief Warrant Officer Haynes.”

  Acquiescing, Haynes said, “Please, take all the dam pictures that you want. Now, are there any dam questions?”

  Playing along, Griffin took his eyes off of the marvel of modern engineering slipping away to their six and said, “Where can I get some dam bait?”

  “That’s great, Doc. But who remembers this one?” said Ari. He cleared his throat. “Where the hell is the damn dam tour?”

  That one rang a bell, finally, and Cade realized they were riffing on Vegas Vacation. Not his personal favorite of the series. Sure, Cousin Eddie was funny in that one. And the Griswold family did get some nice exotic rides off the casino in the end. But nothing compared to Christmas Vacation. His train of thought totally removed from the grim scene below the bridge, Cade smiled, remembering the hilarity that ensued when the Griswold family went Christmas tree hunting. “Too easy,” answered Haynes, his voice dragging Cade’s attention back to the previous conversation. “That was Clark Griswold’s line after he gets separated from the group at the Hoover dam.”

  “Bingo,” said Ari. “Next stop, one-armed bandits, no armed Zs, and the world famous, undead choked, Fremont Street.”

  Hearing this, and without fanfare, Lopez unbuckled and reached into the canvas bag near his feet and came out with a handful of metallic cylinders. He sat up straight, his body language changing. His jaw took a hard set and he looked around the cabin, meeting each man’s gaze. He finished the circuit and stared at Cade and said, “You all have been drilled on how to use these so I’m not going to repeat the gory details.”

  Though he had a good idea what Lopez was up to, Cade still craned forward to get a better look at what was in Low-Rider’s hand. Each item was about five inches long, had a screw-on-type lid, and, judging by the dull sheen and tinny sound they made rubbing together in the Delta commander’s gloved hand, Cade guessed they were made out of aluminum or titanium or some other exotic metal.

  Lopez handed one to Cade then doled the rest out around the cabin counterclockwise. Then he rooted in the bag and brought out four more cylinders and a handful of black heavy duty zip-ties already fashioned loosely into figure-eight-shaped handcuffs. Silently, he passed the cuffs around then put one of the cylinders away in his blouse pocket. He looked at Cade for a few seconds. Finally he handed the remaining three over and said, “All of these are for you as per whatever agreement you have with Nash. Damn, Wyatt. You must be as good at negotiating as you are with that pistola of yours. ‘Cause I heard these things are far from being produced in any kind of large quantities.”

  “They’re far from being perfected, is what I heard,” countered Cade. “I just pray we’ll never have to use them.”

  After concurring with a nod, Lopez looked around the cabin again, settling his gaze on each man for a tick. Finally, in a no nonsense tone, he said, “If you get bit you must administer the antiserum as soon as possible. And there’s no need to sterilize the injection site first ... you get to this point, that’s the least of your worries. Please remember, if you do not immediately experience the euphoric rush that our egghead friends at Schriever briefed us about then presume that you are in the lower percentile and there will be little to zero probability of avoiding Omega’s ultimate outcome. In the event you have crapped out, so to speak, it is your duty to fight your way to somewhere safe and practice proper containment procedures. If you cannot cuff yourself ... if you’re injured and bleeding out, call for Griff and he’ll do it for you.”

  Worrying the zip-ties in one gloved hand, Lasseigne looked at Lopez and said, “Copy that.”

  Griffin nodded and gazed out the window as the terror-stricken faces of the soldiers he’d patched up in the field cycled through his head like a jittery movie. Their eyes darted about, looking for salvation. To a man their mouths emitted choked pleas for a mercy bullet. But not before calling out for those already lost. Echoing in his head at all hours were the specific names of spouses and children and moms and dads. Most were carried in tortured screams. Some came out in a whisper and a last breath.

  Next to Cade, Cross patted the P229 Sig Sauer pistol strapped to his right thigh and said, “I got my own containment protocol right here. If I get bit and the dose doesn’t take hold, no way I’m saddling Griff with that responsibility ... not with those kind of long odds. I’ll take as many of them out first as I can, and save the last round for myself.”

  “Hope for the best, bro. At least with the antiserum you’ve got better odds of surviving a bite than bringing money home from Vegas,” said Ari over the comms. “And speaking of the Devil ... on our starboard side you will see, in all of its former glory, the city that never sleeps.”

  Noting the ant-sized forms staggering here and there on the residential side streets northwest of the strip, Cross said, “The city that never dies is more like it.”

  “Beat me to it,” said Ari, faking a rim shot by tapping his index finger on his mike. Then, in his best Andrew Dice Clay, added, “What d
ies in Vegas ... stays in Vegas. Ohhhh.”

  Cade was looking out the window and marveling at the contrast between the red tiled roofs—which seemed to be the norm for Vegas’s suburbs—and the glimmering aquamarine waters of hundreds of swimming pools. He grimaced at the bad joke but said nothing because he knew how far a little levity went towards keeping one’s sanity intact in the face of so much wanton death and destruction.

  “You’ve got the stick, Haynes. I want to work the FLIR pod,” Ari said.

  “Copy. Taking the stick,” Haynes stated coolly.

  Ari’s hands flew over the touch screen monitor, pressing the appropriate pixelated buttons to engage the gimbal-mounted optics pod. He thumbed the hat switch to the right. Consequently the pod panned right and the distant mountains gave way and the Vegas skyline graced the color monitor to his fore. He zoomed in a few stops and informed the customers in back to watch their flat panel because they would soon be seeing Lost Wages up close and personal, closing with his customary, ‘Courtesy of Night Stalker Air.’

  As Haynes nosed the Ghost Hawk smoothly south by west, Cade removed the satellite phone, glanced at the screen and saw there was nothing new. No text. No voice mail. So he slipped it back into his cargo pocket, glanced up at the large rear-facing monitor above the crew chief’s seat and saw in full color and with outstanding clarity the Vegas strip in all its gaudy splendor. From a trip there in 1998, a month before he and Brook were married, Cade vaguely remembered a hotel with crazy fountains out front and a circus-themed casino complete with three rings laid out inside a vast high-ceilinged building. In his mind he could still see the towering Luxor pyramid and the eye candy that was Treasure Island with its staged battles between damn near life-sized pirate ships simulating cannon fire on a lake of water fronting another mega monument built with gambling revenue.

  But the one thing that would forever stick with him on that first visit to Sin City was how stupid wasting hours and hard earned money inside a windowless air-conditioned dungeon seemed to him.