Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Griffin put his hands up in mock surrender. He said, “No disrespect intended.”

  Nodding, Lopez went on, “So we do a quick search of the tents with the intent of finding Nadia alive. While you’re at it keep your eyes open for anything resembling Nadia.”

  Cade thought: Anything? But he said, “Call them what they are, Lopez. They’re zombies, not humans. They weren’t brought back by the Devil to stalk the living. God’s not smiting us either. This was a colossal fuck up started by a man or woman in a bug-making facility thousands of miles away. No doubt Omega was being weaponized and they succeeded ... but it got out. So as my theory goes, the Chinese generals, having already been working up plans for an invasion of Taiwan and possibly Japan anyway, decided to send the Alpha and an unknown number of human missiles here ... carrying the already escaped virus as their payload.”

  Cross said, “I agree. Just like their and the Russian’s nuke doctrine. They still subscribe to—or at least they did forty-three days ago—mutually assured destruction. Use ‘em or lose ‘em. And that’s no different than a martyr strapping on an explosive vest embedded with nails and ball bearings and hoping to take as many innocents at a wedding or bazaar or government checkpoint with him as possible.”

  Lasseigne chimed in, “Omega was ... is ... terror on an epic scale.”

  “They may have succeeded. And I’m sure we haven’t seen the last of them,” replied Cade as the satellite phone in his cargo pocket vibrated against his thigh. He extracted it, thumbed a button and, when the screen lit up, read the brief text message. Finished, he cycled through the half-dozen contacts, finding Greg Beeson just ahead of the entry labeled Nash. He punched out a two-paragraph message, the first three words reading: For Duncan Winters. He finished the message with two words: Stay frosty. He hit the green pad marked Send and once he saw the message had been transmitted, he thumbed the End button and watched the screen go dark. Still clutching the phone two-handed, he looked out over the Pacific Ocean and revisited Brook’s message in his mind. The words concussion, collapsed lung and possible asthma didn’t put the fear of God in him; however, the part when Brook indicated that all three together is like a perfect storm taxing her remaining good lung set off the first tingles of worry in his gut. And compounding that apprehension was Brook’s sentence indicating that she had no choice but to make a run outside the wire to Woodruff—a town far from the Eden compound and seemingly light years from Los Angeles.

  Ari came over the comms and said, “Seen enough, Lopez?”

  Lopez said, “Affirmative. And much more than I wanted to.”

  Ari asked, “Where do you want to infil your team?”

  Lopez leaned against the port side glass. Spent a couple of beats taking in the sight below.

  Quietly, Cade said, “Want to use the Osprey as a diversion?”

  Nodding, Lopez said, “Ari ... have Ripley move her Osprey to the northeast corner and hover close to the deck and call out Nadia. If there’s no response, have her pipe some Wagner or Disturbed outside to draw the dead to her position.

  A wicked grin spreading on his face, Griffin said, “Or Five Finger Death Punch ... Jeremy Spencer’s drum work will flush ‘em out if the hurricane from the Osprey doesn’t.” He racked a round into his M4, looked around the cabin, and added, “Stay frosty. And I don’t want to hear anyone calling for a corpsman. You hear?”

  Cade smiled at that and said to Lopez, “After all we’ve seen, I don’t think Nadia is here, living or dead. I think she made it to the east bridge and saw that it was blown. She’s no dummy. That’s Nash’s kid we’re talking about. So it might be smart to forgo searching the tents and drop in near the command trucks and see if they left any intel behind. What do you think?”

  Lopez covered his mic and said, “You’ve got a point about Nadia using her smarts. But why would FEMA workers leave anything sensitive like that behind?”

  “Just doing Nash’s bidding. She has her reasons ... two birds, one stone. That’s all. I assume like the guard dropping the Golden Gate and the Bay Bridge that she figured FEMA blowing these was the same ... a last resort action,” answered Cade. “No one’s getting their paychecks deposited on Monday, that’s for sure. You think a civil servant is going to go above and beyond with everyone around them turning? Would you lag behind and take the time to deal with the minutiae?”

  Lopez mouthed: Good point. He removed his hand from his mic and looked at the monitor. He said, “Insert us near the command trucks.”

  “Roger that,” said Ari. “I’ve got the stick.”

  Haynes said, “Copy that. Handing this black beauty back over to you.”

  “That’s Elvira to you, Haynes.”

  Ignoring the banter, Lopez said, “Cade and I will clear the trailers, south to north. Cross, you and Griff cover our flanks. Lasagna, you’ve got our six while we’re inside the trailers. And watch those tents to the east real close.”

  Helmeted heads nodded and thumbs up were flashed.

  Simultaneously Cade felt his stomach heading to his throat and saw the ground rushing up. He chambered a round and, leaving his rifle hot, said a silent prayer for Raven.

  Chapter 46

  Forgoing Brook’s orders, Chief quickly checked the woman’s exposed skin for any signs that she’d been bitten. Aside from a number of fresh scratches and abrasions incurred during her scramble through the felled fir trees the woman seemed healthy.

  Chief and Tran walked her to the truck in silence. Tran opened the rear passenger door for her and offered her a helping hand up.

  The woman hesitated. Looked at Tran then Foley and finally fixed her gaze on Chief and said, “You are good people ... aren’t you?”

  “I do my best, lady,” answered Chief.

  Glenda smiled and accepted Tran’s hand. She climbed up and fell into the seat, obviously exhausted.

  After loping around front and hauling his weary frame in and slamming his door, Chief reached to the floorboards and grabbed the last of the bottled waters. He passed it over his shoulder to Tran, looked sidelong at Foley and said, “Home, James.”

  As the big engine throbbed to life, Chief extracted his radio and called ahead to Phillip with instructions to have the gate open in two minutes by any means necessary.

  Foley jammed the shifter into Drive and pinned the pedal. Hands on the wheel at the proper ten and two, he pronated his wrist and glanced at the watch and saw that since Brook’s harried call a little less than eight minutes had slipped away. A well spent eight minutes, he thought. Because though he didn’t know a thing about their passenger, she was one of the living and to boot she did have a good aura about her.

  ***

  Five minutes after leaving the roadblock, and thirteen total after receiving word of Raven’s injury, the black Chevy blazed past Phillip near the hidden entrance on SR-89, juddered over a handful of Zs prostrate in the road and, tires screeching, made the hard turn into the open gate.

  Holding on for dear life, Glenda began second guessing this lesser of two evils thing. “Who was that man with the gun and where are you taking me?” she asked loudly enough to be heard over the thrumming tires and gravel pinging off the undercarriage. “And why the hurry?” she added as an afterthought.

  Chief swiveled around and said, “We just got word that one of our group was injured ... one of the kids.”

  A kid, thought Glenda. Suddenly she slumped back into her seat. Stopped worrying about who these men were or what might happen. She stopped worrying about anything and everything. It suited her best that way.

  For a long minute the forest whipped by and scratched both sides of the truck. Suddenly, as if they’d been shot out of a cannon, her field of view opened up wide and she saw an ocean of tall grass capped by a vast bluebird sky. Then she saw some younger people carrying guns and the truck she was in slewed sideways and ground to a halt. She looked to her right and noticed a number of SUVs and pickups, one of them much larger than the rest, parked under cover of the trees
near the clearing’s edge.

  “Fourteen minutes and thirteen seconds,” said Foley. “A little longer than the normal commute.”

  “Good driving,” said Chief. “Now let’s see how we can help Brook.” He opened his door and was hit by the instantly recognizable stink of hot motor oil. Which momentarily overpowered the stench radiating from their passenger then was gone with the restless afternoon breeze.

  Remembering how on occasion Louie used to speed along the State Route throwing the Austin Healy around some of those very same curves, Glenda said, “Took more than fourteen minutes and thirteen seconds off this old girl’s life. But I enjoyed every moment. Well ... maybe not the sounds of breaking bones and stuff. Was running over those biters on the road really necessary?”

  Foley said, “Couldn’t be helped, ma’am. Time was of the essence.” He reached out his hand, which was covered in pitch and had abraded knuckles the size of acorns. “James Foley. You can call me Jimmy. Or James. Or Foley. Whatever floats your boat.”

  She took his hand. Felt the hard-earned calluses scrape against her palms, which were recently rubbed raw from the bicycle’s unforgiving fifty-year-old plastic handgrips. “Glenda Gladson,” she said. “Pleased to meet you. And thanks for saving my bacon back there.”

  Shrugging away the accolades, Foley just smiled.

  Chief introduced himself next.

  “Just Chief ... really?” said Glenda, intrigued. “Of what tribe?”

  Remaining stoic, Chief said, “This is my tribe now. And there are no chiefs here.”

  “Workers among workers,” she said in a matronly tone. “I like that. Now run along. You better see what your friend Brook needs.”

  Chief looked at Foley, who apparently was reading his mind.

  Foley said, “I’ll stay with Mrs. Gladson.” He patted his thigh. “I’ve got a radio. Call me if you need anything.”

  Chief nodded and started off towards the compound, carbine in hand.

  Glenda turned to Tran, who had just clicked out of his seat belt. “Where did you boys get the assault weapons?”

  Tran, being the lone pacifist of the group, shrugged and looked the question at Foley. He opened the door and took his bag of mushrooms and greens and left the two alone.

  After Tran closed the door behind him and was on his way to the compound, Foley hitched an elbow over the seatback and said, “They just look menacing. Most of them have less kick than a hunting rifle.” He pulled a folding knife from his pocket. Thumbed the stud on the blade and it flicked open and locked with an audible snik which was amplified to a menacing level inside the truck.

  Glenda frowned, trying to place the sound. Her eyes went wide when she spotted the blade in Foley’s hand. In the next instant she was pressing her back into her seat and stammering, “Wh ... wh ... what’s that for?”

  Foley’s brow furrowed. He looked her square in the face. Noticed how it was lean and angular and traced with lines of age. Her thin lips were chapped and pursed and quivering. There were dark bags under her green eyes and up close he could tell the reason for her death-like pallor was a base of oily makeup that was streaked in places yet still threw off an unusual sheen. He smiled, hoping to put her at ease, and, pointing the knife tip at the magazines on her forearms, said, “To cut those things off of you. What’d you think ... I was getting ready to gut you?”

  “After seeing what some of Huntsville’s more unsavory citizens were capable of ... I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t my first thought.”

  “Put your arms up here ... please.”

  Glenda draped both arms over the black leather seatbacks and let her hands dangle limply.

  Eyes focused on Glenda’s right arm, Foley said, “I have two questions for you before I get started.”

  “Go ahead,” she said, visibly relaxing. “I’ve got nothing to hide.” A curious smile replaced her frown and she nodded her head, waiting.

  Using the knife as a pointer, Foley tapped one of the half-dozen yellow, jagged items protruding from the magazine. Speaking slowly, he asked, “What - are - these?”

  “Teeth.”

  “I’m afraid to ask ... but I’m going to. How’d the teeth end up there?”

  “Simple,” she said. “Fast Glenda. Slow biter.”

  Nodding to show he understood, Foley said, “I’ve heard of the Irrational Enquirer here. But what in the heck is a ...” he traced the smaller magazine’s title with the knife tip “... Grapevine?”

  “AA-approved literature.”

  He visibly recoiled. Said, “You were an alcoholic and had to go to AA?”

  “Still am ... always will be. But I put the plug in the jug years ago. And yes, James, at first I had to go to AA.”

  Foley set the knife aside and rubbed his hands together. They made a scraping sound and tiny flecks of dead dermis filled the air. He leaned in and said, “I have someone I want you to meet. And I even think you’ll like him. Or at the least he’ll grow on you over time. That’s my experience.”

  “But?” said Glenda in the same matronly tone she’d used before.

  Foley wrestled with the question of how much he should divulge to this stranger. His inner voice said: Jimmy, she has a good aura. And that broke the dam and he multitasked, cutting off the other magazines while spilling the beans on Duncan’s worsening addiction to Old No. 7.

  When he was finished, Glenda pulled up her sleeves and rubbed her raw palms up and down her clammy damp forearms. Then she rubbed her palms together and said, “We usually wait for the person to come to us. It’s AA’s policy of attraction rather than promotion. Also we usually only work with persons of the same sex.” She closed her eyes and kept them that way for a few seconds. When she finally reopened them Foley saw a twinkle there and her face had softened somewhat. She said, “But ... seeing as how there are probably damn fewer of us now thanks to the Omega thing, I don’t see how I can’t in good conscience make an exception on both counts.”

  Foley smiled and nudged the driver’s door open.

  Glenda opened her own door and turned back and said, “Plus ... Lord knows Glenda Gladson loves a challenge.”

  Before Foley could answer to that, the two-way radio in his pocket vibrated.

  Chapter 47

  Terminal Island

  The numbers on Cade’s Suunto told him the Osprey had been hovering over the northeast corner of the yard for five minutes. He imagined a little Metallica blaring over the bird’s loudspeaker and in his mind’s eye saw the chalk of Rangers sitting inside facing each other and itching to ‘get some.’ But he hoped the search of the command vehicles wouldn’t devolve to that. And seeing the dead responding to the diversion, trudging lockstep towards the cacophony like so many army ants, gave him a feeling in his gut that maybe Mister Murphy was busy whipping up a shitstorm on some other poor individuals somewhere else in the Z-plagued nation.

  The Ghost Hawk started a slow slide to the right and the nose soon dipped and the rest of the craft followed.

  Cross, Lasseigne, and Griff, busy securing their weapons, dialing in their comms gear, and powering up their NVGs, paused for a tick and nodded simultaneously.

  Lopez grabbed a nylon gear bag and stuffed it in a cargo pocket. Disregarding Cade’s theory of God’s involvement in this whole mess, he signed a cross on his chest and squared up with the door, ready to be first on the ground.

  Cade watched the hovering Osprey slip from view and saw the tents then FEMA trucks filling up the port side windows. Without warning, Ari banked the craft hard left and brought them in fast from the south, flaring at the last second as the mechanical clunk of landing gear locking into place vibrated through the floor. In the next instant the crew chief had opened his port, deployed the starboard minigun, and was scanning the ground for threats.

  Haynes said, “Be advised. The LZ is cold.”

  Ari said, “I concur.”

  Haynes answered, “Touching down in three, two—”

  ‘One’ didn’t register in
Cade’s ears. He was focused intently on the thirty yards of shell-casing-littered asphalt between the helo and the twin RVs at his twelve o’clock.

  By the time Haynes’s count hit ‘One’ Lopez had wrenched the cabin door back in its track and was in mid-air. A millisecond later he was boots on the ground and moving forward in a combat crouch, weapon at the low ready and totally oblivious of the brass rolling away from him in a near perfect arc.

  Semi-propelled by the rotor wash at his back, Cade leaped out and hit the wall of carrion-infused air. It was thick and sweet in a gut-churning way. Bent over at the waist, he moved ahead a few paces, took a knee, and covered three points of the compass until he felt Cross tap his left shoulder and, near simultaneously, Griffin do the same.

  From his side vision Cade saw Lasseigne crab-walking towards his position, weapon trained on the nearby tents and his head on a swivel. Then the electric minigun’s barrel began spinning and its noisy whine registered over the baffled rotors chopping the air overhead. He heard Lasseigne and the two SEALS on his flanks indicate that they were “in place.” Which was his cue to continue on to the command vehicle, following in Lopez’s footsteps.

  Head swinging an arc left to right, like a Secret Service man scanning a crowd, Cade saw the Osprey a half mile distant, its dual spinning rotors producing a muted ripsaw buzz and holding the craft aloft twenty or thirty feet from the deck. He then took into account the number of dead streaming toward it from the tents erected on the premises and figured there had to be more Zs lurking around somewhere.

  Lopez arrived at the command vehicles and pressed his back to the southernmost RV’s door. Tried the handle at once and found it unlocked.

  Cade formed up a second later and saw Lopez nodding and looking at the handle. He mouthed, “Unlocked,” and once Cade was ready, started another countdown.

  When Lopez’s count reached ‘one’ he flung the door wide.

  Crouched six feet away with the silenced M4 tucked in tight, Cade trained the Eotech optic’s holographic red pip on a spot in the darkened doorway he imagined would be head-high on a person of average height.