Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Chapter 18

  Mesa View 4x4 was an easier nut to crack than Cade had presumed. Fifteen seconds using a specialized tool called a lock gun was all he needed to thwart the upper deadbolt. Less than ten additional seconds were necessary to defeat the lock on the brushed-aluminum doorknob.

  After stowing the lock tool, Cade called Max over and led him to the rubber flap near the base of the first roller door.

  Max entered with an eagerness that seemed to set everyone at ease—Brook especially. But a few seconds later the flap rippled and Max emerged, hair standing on end, teeth bared. He spun a couple of silent circles, then looked to Cade for new marching orders.

  “Wish you could talk,” said Cade. “Let us know how many are inside.” One way in. No problem, assuming the building was a giant open-concept rectangle and not partitioned into multiple interior spaces, the latter of which Cade knew was probably the case. So he held the knob and tapped on the window. Soft at first. Nothing. He looked at Raven, arched a brow and shrugged his shoulders as if to say all in a day’s work. And because he knew a little conditioning went a long way, he motioned her in closer.

  Shaking her head and mouthing, “It’s too soon,” Brook stared daggers at the hobbled operator as her only daughter, her only connection to the old world, did as she was told and inched closer, a knuckle-white grip on her rifle.

  Taryn whispered, “What’s he doing?”

  Holding his bat at port arms, Wilson looked at her and shrugged.

  “Sasha ... come here,” said Cade. “Let’s get in touch with that healthy kind of fear.”

  Ashen-faced and shaking her head, Sasha shrank behind Wilson.

  “Cade, no. Not now.”

  All eyes went to Brook.

  “When, then?” he asked. “After we’ve fallen? I hope not because that when will be too late.” Trying to force the issue, he decided to go the divide and conquer route. He hated to do it but knew that it was for the good of the group. So under Brook’s watchful eye, he held the suppressed Glock out butt first. “Take this,” he said to Wilson. “It’s loaded. The safety is located on the trigger. Keep your finger out of the guard and off the trigger until you are ready to fire.”

  Gesturing towards the weapon, palms upturned, shoulders drawn halfway to his ears, Wilson asked, “What do you want me to do with it?”

  “I want you and Taryn to go over to that gate we just came through ...” He pointed at the gathering dead, “... and kill every last one of those things. You have sixteen bullets. One in the pipe and fifteen in the magazine. Why don’t you two make it a competition. Share the weapon and see who scores the most kills with their eight rounds.”

  Wilson stared, speechless. Taryn, however, stepped forward and took the weapon. Held it tentatively, like it was a baby bird and crushing it was a possibility. With the suppressor pointed groundward, she tightened her grip, turned, and walked purposefully towards the gate. Three seconds after being upstaged by a girl, Wilson’s balls dropped and he trotted after.

  Two birds with one stone, thought Cade. He faced Brook, winked, and said over his shoulder, “Let’s go, girls.” He pushed the door open and nearly tripped over Max as he bolted through the sliver of daylight. Sweeping his eyes right to left, Cade crossed the threshold into the retail area of the store, Glock 19 leading the way.

  The air inside had that new car smell. Mainly tire rubber and plastics that partially masked an underlying odor of death. The causation of the latter, Cade guessed, would probably be found beyond the battered gray door which, apart from the three roller doors outside, seemed to be the only other point of entry to the garage where all of the customization took place.

  But first things first, he thought. Straight ahead, illuminated fully by the eight-by-eight bar of light angling in through the skylight, was an L-shaped counter. On the glass surface were a number of telephone-book-sized catalogs, one still cracked open as if someone had just been looking up a part number. And plastering the wall behind the checkout stand were a number of glossy photos of all types of 4x4 pick-ups and SUVs—not one of them close to being as capable as the F-650 out in the parking lot. Cade retrieved his tactical flashlight from a pocket and thumbed it on. Recalling the SMS message he’d gotten from Daymon, he opened the nearest drawer and shone the harsh blue-white beam on its contents. Nothing. He moved on down the counter and struck out twice more, finding only pens and business cards mixed in with stacks of aftermarket wheel and off-road tire brochures. Finally, inside the third drawer, he found what he was looking for and quickly pocketed the items.

  With Brook, Raven, and Sasha looking on, he closed the drawer, stepped from behind the counter, and swept the beam around the vast showroom. The windowless cinderblock walls were cream-colored and the rows of tires lining them seemed to go on forever. He peered down the right side and saw nothing lurking there. Peeked over his shoulder at Raven who was sticking to him like glue, and said, “Clear.” Sensing the scrutiny, she looked up at him, caught his eye and nodded as if saying she was OK with all of this. Next, he shifted his gaze to Sasha, who was six times whiter than normal.

  Head swiveling forward, Cade went into a combat crouch and listened hard, focusing all of his attention towards the back of the store. “Anyone else hear that?” he asked.

  Bravely poking her head around her dad, Raven said, “Yeah ... kind of. What is it?”

  Cade glanced back to verify that she was carrying her rifle safely. Satisfied with what he saw, he whispered, “Can’t be sure. Sounds like something scratching to get out.” For a split second he flashed back to the two-story farmhouse in Hanna. Trapped in the dark, overwhelmed by the wafting stench of the dead—and the non-stop sound of nails scratching on hundred-year-old bead board. With a frigid current tracing his spine, he met Brook’s eyes and a silent message passed between them. She nodded, raised the carbine across her chest with a finger on the trigger guard, and set out for the aisle paralleling the far left wall.

  Then the noise came again, but this time it echoed down the centermost aisle.

  With a granite set to his jaw, Cade said, “Be ready. It’s on the move and knows we are here.” He swept the cone of light over stacks and rows of aftermarket wheels and tires. Illuminated a wall of shock absorbers, their garish-colored dust covers contrasting markedly against the dark brown pegboard display. Bracing the hand with the Glock over the wrist of his left hand which was holding the tactical flashlight, he shone the beam on the far aisle and crabbed to his right.

  Though they could see nothing moving—not even a shadow to give the offending creature’s position away— the sound, now more of a rapid clicking, grew nearer.

  Behind him, Cade could hear Raven breathing hard. Then, shattering the still, Sasha started screaming. A hair-raising peal amplified by the cramped quarters and low ceiling.

  Reacting instantly, Brook let her carbine fall slack on its sling, took a quick step forward and wrapped her toned arm around the hysterical teen’s slender shoulders. After a brief struggle, Brook managed to clamp her hand down hard over Sasha’s mouth. Shaking her head to show her displeasure, Brook met Cade’s eyes and pulled Sasha’s shaking frame in close and whispered next to her ear, “Pull it together or you’re going to get us all killed.”

  Save for the stress-induced labored breathing of the group there was no more sound. Even the clicking had now ceased. Strange, thought Cade. There was none of the usual shuffling or moaning indicating they were sharing the 4x4 shop with one or more of the dead. And it stayed like this for a few long beats. Then the clicking started up again. Like a car’s hot exhaust system cooling off. Softly at first and then louder, finally Max emerged from the catacombs, his overgrown nails raking the cement floor. Oblivious to the heightened state of tension that he had brought on the group, he sat on his haunches and regarded Cade with his dual-colored eyes.

  Meeting the dog’s gaze, Cade lowered his pistol and asked sarcastically, “All clear, buddy?”

  Replying with a gaping yawn
, Max rolled onto his side and exposed his multi-colored belly.

  “False alarm,” said Cade over his shoulder. “But way to go, Raven.” He regarded her and then met Brook’s eyes and winked. “I’m very proud of how you held it together. And Sasha ...” He removed his ball cap. Ran a hand through his lengthening hair. “We can’t have that happen ever again.”

  Releasing her grip on Sasha who was nodding and still a little wild in the eye, Brook wiped the spittle from her hand onto her pants and said to Max, “I’m beginning to regret that I let Raven bring you home.”

  Knowing that nothing good would come from arguing a valid point, wisely, Raven made no reply.

  “Come on girls. We’ve got to get this done so we can get back on the road,” Cade said as he advanced past Max, ignoring him completely. Then, with the business end of the Glock following his gaze, he stepped quietly sideways, favoring his left ankle the entire way. He padded a dozen feet forward and the same distance to his right. Then, in a slow deliberate manner, he cleared each aisle, passing the flashlight’s beam over the rows of vertically stocked air cleaners and oil filters and other parts needed to keep a vehicle running. After finishing his serpentine round-trip recon of the back two-thirds of the shop, he stopped front and center of the abused steel door and looked through the window into the fully illuminated garage. He walked his gaze around the gymnasium-sized structure and saw two things he’d expected to find and one that he had not. “Stay here,” he said. He handed the flashlight to Raven, opened the door a crack, and slipped inside.

  Chapter 19

  As Taryn leveled the Glock, lining up the front and rear sights just as she’d been taught by Brook, her hand began to waver. It started as a little tremor that quickly became a full-blown twitch, causing the silencer to move in slow concentric circles as she fought its weight and her nerves to keep her aim on the zombie. And the longer she held the pistol at arm’s length thinking about whom the undead elderly woman had been in life, the more pronounced her aiming problem became.

  “Am I going to have to draw first blood?” asked Wilson, who was standing a few feet to the left and slightly behind the raven-haired nineteen-year-old.

  “Do not patronize me, Wilson. I’ve got to get used to shooting these things sooner or later.” Suddenly Taryn imagined the zombie clutching the fence in front of her minus the gaunt face and missing ear and purple-ridged bite wound to the neck. In her mind’s eye she saw the woman rosy-cheeked, wispy white hair pulled back into a neat bun, and offering chocolate chip cookies to a couple of excited grandkids.

  But that was not the case now. A guttural growl snapped Taryn to the present. Stalling for more time, she looked over her shoulder and asked, “Where the eff did you come up with that corny expression?”

  “Some ancient movie that my mom and I watched together about five years ago. An action flick about some guy named Rambo who liked to shoot a big machine gun one-handed ...”

  “A silent scream, his face all contorted in slow motion ... yeah, I remember Rambo,” replied Taryn, a smile creasing her face. “Me and my father watched it one night when Mom was out late. One night of many—” Her face went slack and her grip tightened on the Glock. She was no longer clutching the baby bird gently ... she was crushing the life from it. And anticipating the report before depressing the trigger, she forgot everything Brook had passed on to her and did what most novice shooters do—she closed her eyes and jerked the trigger. The former happened so fast it had no effect on her aim. The latter, however, caused her to pull the muzzle down and to the right by a degree.

  Contrary to Taryn’s initial assumption, no great explosion occurred. It was more like a soft pop that dissipated even before the brass tinged against the asphalt. The devastation, however, was greater than she had anticipated—especially with this kind of close proximity. No going back now, she thought, opening her eyes just in time to appreciate every gory detail. There was the soft smack of the 9mm bullet striking Grandma below the left cheekbone. Then the energy from the speeding projectile whipping the undead geriatric’s head left and sending a fist-sized flap of cheek and connecting tissue and muscle spinning away like a clay pigeon. But as expected, the zombie didn’t fall. Instead the opposite happened. Excited by the proximity to fresh meat and the sudden silenced report, the clutch of undead behind the still-moving corpse drove it forward, pinning it against the cyclone fencing. Then the unrelenting press of the dozen-plus walking cadavers caused the unthinkable to happen: Grandma’s distended belly split open like an overcooked brat, sending intestine and bile and the remnants of presumably its last victim shooting through the fence and directly at Taryn.

  Backpedaling and puking a torrent of partially digested MRE pound cake, Taryn instinctively fought back by squeezing off two additional shots to no great effect. Breathing hard, she set the pistol down and dragged a forearm across her mouth. Suddenly aware of the rancid-smelling gore soiling her shirt, she tugged it away from her skin and said rapid-fire, “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Still cursing, she stripped the top off completely and threw it on the ground next to the Glock. Then, standing in the warm sun wearing only Multicam pants and a black bra, she snorted and began to laugh.

  Seeing this, Wilson sat down hard on the cracked and pitted blacktop and grabbed his sides. Then, in between snorts of his own, he said, “Minus the projectile vomiting and minor striptease act, you looked a little bit like Rambo yourself.”

  Taryn snatched up the Glock and subconsciously adjusted her bra strap. Fixing a glare on the dead, she said, “You haven’t seen the half of it.” She tiptoed through the splattered guts and arrived at the fence, Glock in a firm two-handed grip, unwavering. Then, possessing a newly forged demeanor, she put one round into Grandma’s head and five more into the throng of monsters grinding the pinned corpse against the fence.

  Tuning out the hair-raising sounds of the remaining creatures, Taryn held the pistol out butt first. “Six ... you’re at bat, Casey.”

  Wilson pushed off the ground and straightened up. Looking down at Taryn, he cocked his head and shot her a bewildered look.

  Still holding the pistol out like an offering, she said, “The baseball universe does not revolve around your precious Mister Todd Helton.”

  “So who is this Casey?”

  “Fictional character in a poem written by Ernest Thayer. You know, Casey at the Bat?” She let the words hang but received only a dumb stare. So she went on. “Casey is based on Mike Kelly who was the most expensive NL player of his era ... nickname was King, if I remember the story right.”

  The chain-link groaned under the weight of the dead.

  Wilson finally took the Glock from her, pivoted to the side with the silencer aimed groundward, and ejected the magazine. He counted the remaining bullets. Saw that there were seven, plus the one in the chamber. Eight chances to save face, Casey. “And how much did this King guy get paid?” he asked.

  “Not much,” she said loudly to be heard over the hungry mob. “But like a commodity or something, they sold him to Boston.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten thousand dollars.”

  Looking over his shoulder, Wilson said, “That’s nothing compared to Helton’s salary. How’d you learn all of this anyway?”

  “If you haven’t figured it out yet, Wilson.” She stood on her toes and gave him a peck on the cheek. “I’m a tomboy.”

  “Coulda fooled me,” he said with a quick downward glance at her lacy undergarment.

  “Doesn’t mean I can’t be sexy,” she said seductively.

  There was an awkward silence as Wilson’s jaw slowly hinged open.

  After inspecting her tattooed arms for any wayward food particulates or bodily fluids, and finding nothing substantial, she met Wilson’s gaze, smiled, and said, “While you finish up here ... I’m getting a shirt.”

  Cheeks turning every shade of red, Wilson averted his eyes. He turned on his heel and moved closer to the fence, determined to finish the job she had started.


  Chapter 20

  The gray steel door between the retail offerings and the garage swung open easily, but before Cade could react, hundreds—if not thousands— of small black flies enveloped his head like a funeral veil. As their burnished wings beat the air around him, the sickly sweet pong of death assaulted his nose. Glock sweeping left, he quickly pushed through the buzzing cloud and entered the sweltering garage. Nothing to see. So he spun a swift one-eighty to his right and spotted the dead thing just as the door settled against the rubber stop.

  Curled up on the hard cement next to a pair of deep stainless steel bowls, both licked clean to a high sheen, was the decomposing remains of what Cade guessed had at one time been a seventy or eighty pound dog. And judging by the wide set eyes and pronounced snout and wiry tufts of rust-colored fur standing at attention along the jutting vertebrae, there was no doubt in his mind that he was looking at all that remained of a dead Rhodesian Ridgeback. Great breed of dog, he thought. In fact, he’d met a couple of them at Bagram Air Base during his first swing through Afghanistan with the 75th Ranger Regiment. Capable animals. Smart and loyal to the end. But unfortunately this one’s end had not been pleasant.

  Once he had taken a couple of steps into the garage and the eye-watering stench only got worse, he came to the conclusion that there was no way this weeks old maggot-infested carcass, already nearly consumed by thousands of wriggling fly larvae, could be solely responsible for the wall of stink he’d just walked into.

  So, fingers spread, he raised his free hand, signaling silently to the others to stay where they were. Reaching back, he found the knob by feel and shut the door. Then, breathing through his mouth, he skirted around the front of the first bay. The lift was empty and the greasy articulated arms that would normally support a vehicle were level to the floor and splayed out over the work bay beneath them.