Surviving The Zombie Apocalypse (Book 14): Home

by Chesser, Shawn

  “Thirty bucks a gallon,” scoffed Duncan. “Opportunists sure came out of the woodwork during the outbreak.”

  “They still are,” observed Raven soberly. Lord knows she’d seen her share of them in the months since the Omega virus irrevocably changed her life. And in the weeks since she’d been calling Springs home, she’d come across many more.

  Like the blank staring eyes of the infected, grimy windows on homes and businesses long abandoned reflected the green blur of the passing Bronco back at Raven. As they covered the last few blocks to the intersection where zones transitioned from Yellow to Red, she tried hard to picture her home in Portland but only came up with a gray two-story box. The porch roof, she recalled, was buttressed by square columns; the handrails running all around it were supported by metal balusters. The windows, she knew, had white frames bracketed by black shutters her dad had said were put there just for looks.

  She also knew without a doubt the front door was black. Because one hot summer day when she was nine or ten, she had helped her dad paint it to match the useless shutters.

  Stowing his Saiga on the floor, Duncan said, “Kind of reminds me of the pictures of the No-Man’s-Land between Checkpoint Charlie and the Berlin wall. Big difference, though, was that the wall and mined ground and barbwire was there to keep people from fleeing communism, not to protect the population from walking dead things and breathers with bad intentions.”

  Duncan’s brief history lesson had snapped Raven back to the present. She looked between the front seats and saw they were now approaching the underpass that marked the start of a half-mile run of Platte Avenue that traversed a wide plain of cleared ground said to be strewn with motion sensors and trip-flares.

  Praying the wait wouldn’t be a long one, Raven said, “We’re here” and started searching for their welcome party.

  Chapter 9

  At first sight of the Welcome sign posted just outside the mouth of the El Paso Street underpass, Daymon braked and brought the Ford to a complete stop, leaving its front bumper hovering over the squiggly safety-orange line spray-painted across both westbound lanes.

  The sign was far from welcoming. While it did announce Colorado Springs as the new capital of the United States, the rest of the information on it, written in several different languages, was of the instructional variety that concluded with an order for anyone approaching on foot or by vehicle to wait for permission to enter before proceeding forward.

  The checkpoint location had been chosen for a number of reasons, the most glaring being the lack of anything standing between it and the perimeter wall fronting the Red Zone.

  Constructed from light-gray cement panels sourced from freeways far and wide, the east wall stretched for miles north and south. Finished just weeks ago, the wall was already tagged with graffiti, some of it crude as cave drawings, some of it colorful works of art that had clearly been given much thought before the first line was sprayed.

  Referring to the jagged letters making up the nearly indecipherable names and phrases marring many of the panels, Duncan said, “Damn taggers are like cockroaches.”

  Raven said, “They hit my school in back just after it let out for the summer.”

  Daymon shut the truck down. “I never saw any of that in Jackson. Chief Jenkins would have shit a brick. Then he would have run down whoever did it and made them spend a day freezing their asses off while they picked up antlers from the elk refuge.”

  “Ahhh,” Duncan said, “the good ol’ days. I sure miss them.”

  Dead ahead, across the razed ground, looking like a postage stamp from this distance, was one of the eastern wall’s two entries.

  Appearing to hover above the wall on either side of the gate was a pair of guard towers. An enclosed walkway with horizontal firing ports connected the towers. Black fabric stretched across the walkway no doubt shielded from view at least one sniper training his or her rifle on them.

  Poking skyward in the middle distance—the tallest among them maybe thirty stories—were the buildings making up the downtown core. Thanks to the recent weather, they stood out starkly against the foothills rambling away westward behind them.

  Raven asked, “How do they know we’re here?”

  Duncan said, “I’m sure there’s someone glassing us right now.”

  Sensing distant eyes on him, Daymon let his gaze travel their surroundings.

  Northwest of the Bronco, a trio of huge, snow-dusted burn piles rose up from the parking lot of what appeared to be some kind of sports complex. The rounded tops of the mounds of charred, nearly unrecognizable corpses were almost level with the blackened crowns of the half-dozen mature trees growing in the median directly across the street from them.

  Due to Daymon’s experience fighting wildfires, the genesis of this massive burn was crystal clear to him. Having flashed off at the burn piles, likely as a result of too much fuel and lax attention, wind-driven flames had jumped the street, flared in the boughs of the nearby trees, and then went on to consume tinder-dry bushes and lawns and structures for blocks and blocks in either direction.

  With no water pressure to speak of, the soldiers and volunteers working to sanitize the new capital for arriving survivors could only watch as a half-mile wide swath of eastern Springs burned out of control, only going out once it reached the ground being cleared in preparation for the eastern wall and ran out of fuel.

  Shaking his head, Daymon craned and scrutinized the landscape southwest of the intersection. Stretching off for several blocks on a diagonal tangent was what he guessed used to be a city park of significant importance. The snowy expanse of sparsely treed ground rolled away to a nearby lake. Hugging the snow-dappled banks and untouched by wildfire was a row of wooden boat houses. Abutting the boat houses was a long dock home to multiple racks filled with colorful kayaks and stand-up paddle boards.

  Near the park’s entrance was an abstract stone monument. It sat on what looked to be a marble pedestal erected in the center of a circular plaza. All of the trees ringing the plaza had suffered the same fate as the ones in the median.

  Kitty-corner from the plaza was another burn pile. Here and there blackened appendages pierced the snow.

  It was a surreal sight to see the park nearly untouched in the midst of all the destruction.

  “How did this burn start?” Raven asked.

  Daymon gave voice to his theory.

  “So how did it jump the city?”

  Daymon shook his head. “Two different fires. Shortly after this eastside burn, the mayor called for a volunteer force to be established. Foraging crews went to communities south of Springs looking to loot abandoned stations of their vehicles and firefighting gear. I hear they had to go all the way to Pueblo for engines and spare hose.”

  Duncan looked away from the burn piles long enough to say, “So how did the other fire start?”

  “A lightning strike,” Daymon said. “And just days after they got this one tamped down.”

  Raven said, “I’m guessing the mayor’s plan was still in motion.”

  “Yep,” Daymon confirmed. “There were multiple strikes up and down the foothills. When all was said and done, wind-whipped flames scorched everything south to north between Interstate 25 and Garden of the Gods.”

  “Nothing much to burn there,” Duncan said, his gaze back to roaming the sky.

  Daymon said, “Just red rock spires and juniper.”

  Raven said, “How’d they save the Air Force Academy?”

  “Act of God,” Duncan said. “Everyone knows He likes us aviators. How do you think I survived all those hard landings?”

  “Crashes,” needled Daymon.

  Duncan waved dismissively. Still scanning the sky, he said, “Damn thing should be here by now.”

  As the trio waited for permission to enter the Red Zone and begin their controlled approach to the eastern gate, they each struggled to find something to do to pass the time.

  Duncan watched a feral dog poking its head into an ove
rturned garbage can. It was no bigger than a Corgi, with the stunted legs to match. Strangely, its white coat bore a multitude of small black spots. Probably the result of a wham-bang encounter between a Dalmatian and Corgi. What a sight that improbable interlude would have been, he thought with a grin as it scurried from the can and loped toward the windowless shell of a burned-out SUV. Since the tires had been reduced to pools of rubber, leaving the SUV sitting on warped steel wheels, only a six-inch-gap at best remained between the vehicle’s running boards and buckled patch of asphalt it sat upon.

  Thanks to the dog’s low-to-the-ground stance, it crawled under the wreck with maybe an inch or so to spare. Then, totally ignoring the occupants of the bright green intruder, the Corgmation—as Duncan had instantly labeled the mutt—emerged from cover, nosed the ground from the curb to the nearest burn pile, then entered a shadowy crevice and was lost from view.

  Raven had been drumming Duncan’s seatback and watching the dog, too. Craning to see out the windshield, she said, “What do you think is keeping them?”

  Having been staring south down the side street where the bare foundations of razed structures stretched off into the distance, Daymon perked up and looked at his watch.

  Regarding Raven, he said, “Lunch?”

  Duncan pushed his aviator glasses up on his nose then hunched down in his seat and looked out over the flat hood. Slowly, he scanned the snow-covered expanse of open ground spread out before them. He saw nubs of logged trees and tufts of rolled concertina but couldn’t make out much more than that beyond the midway point to the gate.

  Straightening up in his seat, Duncan said, “With all the snow, if the damn thing is out there, it should be standing out like a sore thumb.”

  “Sayeth the guy who weareth the bifocals,” Daymon quipped. He cracked his neck and back, then, one at a time, worked on his knuckles. Though he knew they were all bad habits, he’d been doing it several times a day since Heidi’s death.

  Raven said, “Shhh … I hear it.”

  A tick later an ominous shadow fell on the hood. As they craned to spot the incoming drone, the soft buzzing morphed to a shrill whine and the insect-looking craft materialized just outside Daymon’s open window.

  Chapter 10

  Pulling a trick out of the Red Baron’s playbook, whoever was piloting the source of the buzzing had masked its approach by bringing it in on a gently sloping approach that had it coming straight out of the low-hanging sun.

  A couple of seconds after the motor noise enveloped the Bronco, the craft—a four-prop drone about the size of a manhole cover—appeared off the left front fender. The blades were black blurs inside horizontally positioned circular shrouds. Protruding from under the craft’s desert-tan main body was a polished black dome.

  As if mounting a feeble attack on the Ford, the drone’s blurry, insect-like shadow danced back and forth across the hood. This went on for a few seconds while the unseen operator made minute course corrections to steady the craft in front of the windshield.

  Having finally attained a semblance of a hover, the drone spun slowly on axis, no doubt to allow the camera in the dome to get a good fix on the truck’s occupants.

  Speaking in a near whisper, Duncan said, “I’ve heard about these models, just haven’t seen one up close.”

  Daymon cranked his window open. In a booming voice, he said, “What’s up?”

  A couple of seconds went by. Finally, as crisp and clear as if the person speaking was just outside the door, a masculine voice asked them to state their business.

  Daymon held up the official document that allowed them access to the eastern frontier.

  As the drone slipped around to his window, he said, “We were doing a cull east of Yoder.”

  A few more seconds passed.

  Leaning in close to Daymon, Duncan whispered, “I have a feeling there’s a bit of an audio delay going on here. You know, like they had on newscasts and such so they could censor the truth. Keep the sheeple from hearing and seeing what they weren’t supposed to.”

  Raven shook her head. “You think everything is a conspiracy, Uncle Duncan. My mom told me tape delay was used so kids didn’t have to hear curse words or see bad things like car wrecks or shootings as they were happening on live television.”

  “Is that what Glenda told you? I’m a conspiracy nut?”

  Raven was spared from answering when, again, the voice emanated from the hovering drone. It said, “You can lower the document.” Then: “How many in your vehicle?”

  “Three,” Daymon answered.

  The drone moved in closer and rotated on axis, slowly, from left to right, stopping only when it was squared up to Raven.

  “Are any of you hurt?”

  “Just my feelings,” Daymon said. “Any way I can look my interrogator in the eyes?”

  There was no response to his question. Instead, the drone panned back and forth, finally stopping where it had started, with what looked to be the front of the craft facing Raven.

  Duncan held a hand out to Daymon. “Hundred bucks says it’s giving us the once-over with a thermal scanner.”

  “You’re not supposed to be placing bets,” Raven hissed. After scanning all points of the compass, she addressed Daymon, saying, “Ask the man what he wants so we can be on our way.”

  Daymon turned back to face the drone but found that it had flown off and was nearly finished conducting a counterclockwise window-level recon of the Bronco.

  Finishing the orbit, the drone hovered off the driver’s side mirror and the voice asked if they had been anywhere near the Castle Rock craters or the badlands due east of them where prevailing winds had deposited fallout after the detonation of two low-yield nuclear warheads.

  Daymon said, “Nope and nope. And we didn’t harvest from any glowers, either. Checked ‘em all first with the Geiger.”

  The voice said, “Follow. Do not deviate.”

  Watching the drone scoot off to the west, Duncan said, “Pushy fella, ain’t he?”

  Again stating the obvious, Raven said, “He’s just doing his job.”

  The drone led them down Platte Avenue at damn near thirty miles per hour. Along the way they passed the bulldozed remains of a couple of fast food establishments, a chain hardware store, and a 7-Eleven. Intense heat had warped the convenience store’s once colorful sign, leaving it faded and marred with brown, pimply bubbles.

  As they reached the gate, without warning the drone lifted away from the Bronco and then dropped out of sight behind the wall.

  To their immediate right, planted in the ground on the corner of Platte and North Nevada, was a sign that read Palmer High School. What looked to have once been a two- or three-story affair was now a ten-foot-tall pile of rubble. Canted at crazy angles, fractured cement sheets shot through with twisted rebar and sprouting fire-ravaged heating and ventilation equipment kept anyone from approaching the gate from the north.

  South of the gate was the fortified single-wide trailer. From previous trips outside the wire, Duncan knew this was where the I’s were dotted and T’s got crossed. The drab tan building housed medical equipment and was staffed by a doctor and nurse—both civilians.

  Behind the trailer was a pair of futuristic-looking Mine Resistant Armored All-Terrain Vehicles. The M-ATVs were painted in a woodland camo pattern—a mix of blacks, browns, and shades of green—and bristled with guns.

  A second trailer behind the first housed a squad of soldiers from the 4th ID. They were armed to the gills and had enough ammo to keep any attackers at bay until a quick reaction force could be summoned from inside the walls.

  “More hurry up and wait,” Daymon groused.

  Duncan said nothing. He was staring at the windowless door and willing someone to emerge through it.

  Meanwhile, in the backseat, Raven’s attention was drawn to the colorful graffiti on the sections of wall south of the soldiers’ billet.

  Indicating something that had caught her eye, Raven said, “Are those house-lo
oking thingies some kind of Japanese writing?”

  Squinting, Duncan said, “All I can make out is the big writing. Don’t ask me what those tangled letters spell out. It’s all Greek to me.”

  Craning to see beyond the first trailer, Daymon said, “Looks to me like Kanji. Chinese figures that have certain meanings. I’ve seen them on the walls in tattoo shops. Those other things … I have no clue.”

  Pointing at a big swathe of color, Raven asked, “What’s that?”

  Daymon said, “The big tag right there is just regular graffiti. It reads … We are all dead inside.”

  Duncan shot his friend a befuddled look. “How do you get that out of”—he pointed across the hood—“that?”

  Daymon shrugged. He put both hands up so Duncan could see them and began to trace a facsimile of the interconnected letters on his palm for his friend to follow. He got through the first two words and was moving on to all when he felt in his chest an all too familiar sensation. It was as if he were standing next to a speaker bank at a Damian Marley concert. Except he heard no lyrics or instruments. Instead he just felt the harmonic thrum that could only belong to one thing: the Ghost Hawk helicopter that used to take his friend on his secretive missions.

  Wishing the vintage Bronco had a glass roof, Duncan ran his window down. Removing the white Stetson, he stuck his head out the window and looked skyward.

  “There it is,” Raven said, pointing at the blue sky above the trailers.

  Duncan hunched down in his seat and walked his gaze the length of Raven’s arm. Picking up the angular outline of the helo Cade called Jedi One, he said, “Ari’s coming out of the sun, too.” He sighed and watched the coal-black stealth helicopter pass right to left. “What I wouldn’t give to fly one of those black whirly birds.”

  The third-generation Jedi ride was flying clean with its landing gear and weapons stowed internally. The heading it was maintaining looked to be a straight shot to Peterson Air Force Base.