Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  With no idea the significance that the pasty arm dangling from Wilson’s well-stretched out shirt represented, Cade began to laugh, and then after a few uncomfortable seconds spent watching the redhead roll around the hot asphalt with the arm flopping after, he holstered his Glock and said, “You got that all right, Wilson. Nicely done.”

  “Go to hell,” Wilson shot back.

  “No,” Cade replied. “Those four Zs beat me to it.”

  “You almost killed me,” Wilson said between big gulps of carrion-sullied air. He tore the shirt over his head and tossed it and the arm to the roadway.

  Cade made no reply.

  Wilson dragged his forearm across his cheek and it came away red with blood. Then, pasty and bare from the waist up and blushing red from the combination of the near-death experience and the embarrassment of underperforming when it mattered most, he hung his head and tramped toward the Raptor. Avoiding all eye contact, he looped around the hood and swiveled the side mirror outward on its post, dipped at the knees and inspected his neck.

  In the F-650, Brook took her hands from her ears and released the breath she’d been holding for the entire duration of the dramatic melee, which had lasted a little less than ten seconds from the moment Wilson set foot on the Interstate until the Glock discharged twice and thundered and echoed about the cab around her. Pinching her nose to keep out the carrion and cordite stench, she caught Cade’s eye and said, “Now that was close.” She grabbed her first aid kit from the glove box. Zippered open the red nylon bag adorned with a white first aid cross and fished out a pair of purple surgical gloves. Snapping them over her hands, she grabbed her M4, shouldered her door open, and leaped from the cab. After giving the fallen corpses and splattered detritus a wide berth, she took up station beside Wilson, who was just beginning to show the first signs of shock. Placing a hand on his back, she asked, “Did it bite you anywhere?”

  He looked away from his reflection in the mirror and set his gaze on Brook and began to shake as the spike of adrenaline ebbed. Seeing this, she gripped his shoulder with her left hand and stood on her toes. She expertly manipulated his head with her free hand, having him tilt it first left and then to the right while looking closely for any breaks in the skin. Next she called out to Sasha in the rear of the Raptor and had her pass forward another shirt for him.

  “Well?” asked Wilson. “Is this the part of the show where I traipse off into the desert and put a bullet in my own head?”

  “Its teeth didn’t break the skin, Wilson. Looks like your show has been renewed,” Brook whispered into his ear. She unwrapped a small alcohol swab and worked the towelette into the angry red fissure starting just behind his right earlobe and none too gently dragged it through to his jawline, where the projectile had mercifully parted ways with his skin before continuing on and delivering the first half of the near simultaneous double tap to the Z’s head. Unaware of just how close he had come to dying—in more ways than one—he flinched and tried to pull away as Brook made a second pass to clean the edges of the puckered three-inch-long wound. Keeping a firm grip on his shoulder, she tore open a fresh swab with her teeth, spat out the foul-tasting foil packaging, and said, “You need stitches ... but I’m not comfortable doing it here.”

  Cade called down from the F-650. “Is the kid going to be OK?”

  A big grin spread on Brook’s face as she turned towards Cade and nodded slowly. “No bite,” she called back. Then her smile disappeared and she added, “But one of your bullets took a chunk out of his cheek.”

  Making no reply, Cade poked the shifter into Drive, a move that caused the truck to rock forward on its suspension while delivering a clear signal that he was itching to get underway.

  Touching the four-inch square of sterile gauze taped to his face, Wilson thanked Brook, climbed in and took his place riding shotgun next to Taryn in the Raptor.

  After discarding her soiled gloves on the shoulder, Brook circled around behind the F-650 and hauled herself back into the cab. She settled into her seat, clicked her seatbelt home, and exhaled loudly. Then, as all husbands are required to do after the dreaded huff and, in this instance, mostly to avoid miles of traveling in uncomfortable silence, Cade asked, “What’s the matter?”

  “You shouldn’t have green lit that exercise in stupidity.”

  “He’s a grown man.”

  Wiping the sweat from her forehead, Brook said, “No, Cade Grayson, he is twenty. Think back to when you were twenty.”

  “Different set of rules ... those things were not walking around eating people back then.”

  “Don’t you understand?” said Brook. “Proving your point your way almost got Wilson killed.”

  “No,” Cade replied immediately. “Wilson almost got Wilson killed. I saved his ass from a fate worse than getting killed. And I hope the memory of this little roadside fiasco is going to keep his ego in check ... at least until we get to the compound. After that I don’t give a shit how he wants to show off.”

  “He’s looking for your approval, Cade Grayson,” she said with a tilt to her head. “But you let it go too far ... and then you shot him.”

  Raven had her elbows hooked over the front seatbacks and had been following the conversation, head swinging left and right and back again like windshield wipers on high for the entire duration. But as soon as she heard her mom utter this new revelation, her brown eyes went wide and she froze, mouth agape, her gaze locked on her dad.

  Ignoring the additional pair of eyes boring into his skull, Cade said, “Helluva small price to pay to learn a couple of valuable life lessons.” He looked down into the other Ford and saw an animated and probably equally heated conversation taking place between Wilson and Taryn. And to complete the surreal near-mirror-image of his current environment, Sasha was wedged between the Raptor’s front seats and striking a pose similar to Raven’s.

  Hunching forward, Brook shot an incredulous look his way. She waited until he took his eyes off the other truck, then asked the obvious question, “And what would those life lessons be?”

  “For one, he’s been shooting at those things from behind the safety of a fence for so long that he’s out of touch with what it’s really like out here. Hell, if we’re being honest here, you all have gone and gotten a little complacent and that’s got me more than a little worried.”

  Wanting badly to defend her own track record outside the wire, Brook decided the time and place was not in front of Raven and wisely held her tongue. Instead, she said, “And?”

  “And ... we all have to be extra careful around the little Zs,” said Cade, releasing the brakes. “They’re a lot faster than the others. Deceptively so, as we just witnessed.” He sighed, then went on, “And that’s what got Mike killed. Clearly, he didn’t expect a toddler to find another gear and launch on him like a meat-seeking missile. But I was there and saw it with my own eyes—” He went quiet again. Stared straight down the center of the road fixed on a point somewhere over the horizon.

  “I’m sorry,” mouthed Brook. “I didn’t know that’s how it happened.”

  He cupped her knee. Gave it a squeeze. “Gotta drill it into them ...” He shot a sidelong glance at Raven. Made a face at her and added, “This is for you too. Getting close to the dead out here is a whole different animal that requires a lot more concentration. ‘Cause Mister Murphy never RSVPs his intentions.”

  Hearing this, and having never heard of nor met this person, Raven tore her eyes from Cade and mouthed, “Mister Murphy,” at Brook while raising an eyebrow.

  “I’ll tell you all about him later, sweetie.”

  “RSVP?”

  “Later,” Brook added sternly.

  Inside the Raptor, Wilson had just settled into what he thought might become his permanent station in life, forever riding shotgun with a girl at the wheel and Sasha hanging like a monkey between the front seats. He closed the door and started his window running up in its track.

  Hands kneading the steering wheel, Taryn asked in a l
ow voice, “What happened?”

  “One second I was trying to move the stinking thing around so that I’d be shooting at it away from the trucks ...”

  Interrupting him, Taryn said, “I saw your face go slack for a second.”

  “I froze up.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I started seeing her as what she used to be ... a little girl.”

  “Understandable.” She made a face and looked beyond Wilson at the black truck as it rolled by the passenger window. Then she fixed her gaze on him. Her face softened and a single tear tracked the contour of her cheek. “I don’t want to lose you, Wilson,” she said, choking on the words.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching over to comfort her.

  Trying to lighten the mood in the only way her fourteen-year-old mind worked, the queen of all ballbusters said, “Well, at least it didn’t get a hold of your hair.” To which Wilson whipped around and shot her a patented Shut up or I’m gonna kill you look.

  Getting the hint, Sasha disappeared into the back and, in turn, Wilson looked ahead just as the larger truck entered the soupy stretch of I-70.

  Taryn wiped away the tears and flicked her eyes to the rearview. She saw that the road was clear of vehicles but there were a couple of Zs several hundred yards back, no doubt drawn by the gunfire. Then she locked onto her own reflection and was startled by what was staring back. The combination of her red puffy eyes and the near permanent pinched and pained expression on her face made her look like someone else. More than a week in Grand Junction Regional paired with the highs and lows—mostly lows—of surviving the apocalypse had aged her prematurely. Nineteen going on thirty, she thought to herself.

  As the F-650 in front of them wheeled around the twice-dead Zs, Wilson crossed his fingers, motored his seat forward to be closer to the AC vents, and then said a little prayer to the Gods of melted roadways.

  Chapter 29

  Duncan couldn’t purge from his mind the idea that he was retracing Logan’s last steps on Earth. And the closer he got to the rust-streaked white building where his baby brother had drawn his final breath, the angrier he became.

  The facility was just as he remembered it, only coming at him from a different perspective. The water-filled quarry to his left glittered silver from the mid-morning sun hitting off the wind-buffeted ripples—a far cry from the expanse of murky blackness it presented from the air flashing underneath the DHS Black Hawk.

  The black and white Tahoe was right where whoever had been driving it had parked it last, only the doors were now closed and it was surrounded by water-filled puddles. A noisy chorus announcing their arrival, gravel popped under the Toyota’s tires and pinged off the undercarriage as Duncan wheeled past the Tahoe’s driver’s side. He looked beyond the police cruiser at the three outbuildings that yesterday, from a couple of hundred feet up, had at first seemed like kids’ toys. Up close and under closer scrutiny, they exuded neglect, the wood they had been built with, gray and swaybacked, having succumbed long ago to weather and gravity. All three doors were opened up to the elements. All three locks were missing, just punched out holes where they should have been and jagged splinters where they met up with the jambs.

  The oversized metal garage was quiet and dark. Before leaving with the bodies, Duncan and Daymon had snugged the roller doors shut and secured the bullet-riddled office door as best they could.

  Duncan finally broke the silence. “Here we are, fellas.”

  Lev exhaled as they nosed in close to one of the roller doors. “This is where it all went down,” he said, craning to see the building. “Where’d you find their bodies?”

  “Inside,” said Duncan, putting the transmission into Park and setting the brake.

  Reliving the day, Duncan said, “I went in first and found them both on the concrete pad ... already bled out.”

  “No sign of the girls?” asked Lev.

  Daymon shook his head. “Nope.”

  “Blood?”

  Daymon answered, “Just what had pooled around Logan and Gus.”

  “Whoever killed them knew how to control their weapons,” said Duncan. He shut off the motor. “No spray and pray happened here. They hit fast and hard, I’m guessing. Dropped the two men first with closely grouped shots. Center mass on both of them.” He went quiet for a tick, then added, “That’s how I would have done it.”

  Lev nodded in agreement. “Logan and Gus weren’t wearing vests,” he said, more a statement than a question.

  “Nope,” Duncan answered. Then, squinting against the sun or emotion or both, went on, “I told him it would be a good idea ... but he didn’t listen to his big brother.”

  “What’s good for the goose,” said Daymon. “None of us are wearing vests. So who are we to be judging?”

  A series of hollow thuds sounded as Lev pounded on his chest. “I am,” he stated. “Been a habit that’s hard to shake.”

  “Good habit,” said Duncan, nodding.

  “I plan on wearing one when we go up north,” said Daymon. He clicked out of his belt and cringed as his door shrieked metal on metal when he hinged it open.

  Duncan sighed and nudged his door open. “Me too,” he said. “Me too.” He pocketed the keys, turned back towards the others and added, “Pick one out for yourself. There’s plenty of them hanging up downstairs ... and brand new BDUs and enough of those tactical elbow and knee doo-dads for all of us. Everything we need to go hunting man is in there ... except ammo. Fuckers took it all. But thanks to Oops we don’t have to fret about that.”

  Lev smiled. “How about comms?”

  Duncan slid from the SUV. Waited for Lev to do the same, then asked, “You didn’t inventory that box Daymon lugged out of the Black Hawk yesterday?”

  Lev closed his door quietly. Looked Duncan in the eye. Held the gaze for a second then wiped a stray tear from the corner of his eye. “Didn’t hold very high of a priority with me considering all that had happened.”

  Fighting back his own tears, Duncan said nothing.

  “Someone ... probably good ol’ Logan stashed it in the back of the Tahoe,” said Daymon. “Then it got overlooked by the bad guys. Or if it didn’t then they had no use for some high quality communications and night vision gear.”

  “Sounds like something the little packrat would do,” said Duncan.

  Solely because he didn’t want to hear the sound again, Daymon unfolded his lanky frame from the passenger seat, left the door wide open and stretched and cracked his back and neck. He looked over the SUV’s hood at Duncan and said, “So what you’re telling me and Lev is that when we go after Bishop and his boys we’re going to look like that Delta boy, Sarge Grayson?”

  “Delta,” said Lev with a slight tilt to his head. “I can picture how the guy looked last time I saw him. From a distance ... he didn’t really strike me as Delta.”

  “He’s the goods,” stated Daymon. “I’d tell ya some stories but then I’d have to kill you. He’s that good.”

  “Lock and load,” said Duncan. He slipped his .45 from its holster. Approached the office door with it held two-handed and at a low ready, hoping the situation inside remained the same as he’d left it. “Take what you want but only what you need. We don’t have to hump everything back to the compound on this trip.” He climbed the two stairs, hovered in front of the bullet-pocked door and rapped sharply.

  Nothing.

  Sensing Lev and Daymon stacked closely at his back, Duncan nudged the door open with his toe and crept into the gloom. The office seemed smaller this time around. He worked his way past pieces of inexpensive office furniture streaked with dried blood and crushed—like an ice floe of chrome and wood-grained veneer—up against the ugliest seventies-era couch he had ever set eyes on. The calendar on the wall drew his attention. However, it wasn’t the mining equipment being featured in solo glamour shots that attracted it, but the month and year the calendar was open to. And save for the day the dead began to walk—that warm day in September circled on the 2
001 circa calendar had changed his life forever. And in passing he felt it his duty to point it out to the others.

  Daymon said, “Never going to forget that day as long as I live.”

  Lev nodded. Signed the cross on his chest. “It’s why I joined up,” he said solemnly.

  “Yesterday trumped it for me,” said Duncan as he rapped on the interior door. He waited a second, and when nothing went bump in the dark, holding his .45 near his hip, pushed through with his free hand.

  Daymon asked quietly, “Whatcha got?

  “Gloom and more gloom.”

  Daymon flipped the wall switch. “How’s this?” he asked as the fluorescent tubes thirty-plus feet overhead hissed to life.

  Duncan made no reply. He looked up. Regarded Edison’s invention fired by what was arguably—save for gunpowder—man’s greatest discovery. That it had been collected from the sun by the panels on the roof instead of taken from an overhead line made no difference. Electricity was electricity and its byproduct held his rapt attention for a second.

  Lev whistled. “Solar power. We’ve got to unbolt however many panels are up there and take those suckers and the inverter or whatever that thing is called back to the compound.”

  “First things first,” said Duncan. He looped around the tailgate of a gleaming white Dodge 4x4—dually and CB-equipped no less, he quickly noted—and then stood over the spot on the gray specked floor where Logan had died. Back against the roller door, he found himself staring at a dried-to-black Rorschach-like blood stain. At its widest, where Logan’s upper body had lain while he bled out, the pool was oblong with thin rivulets streaming away where the cement floor had settled and folded in on itself, leaving thin capillary-like cracks that the blood had followed freely. However, at the opposite end where his feet had been, there was a dried blood trail resembling a giant brush stroke created when he and Daymon had moved the linen-shrouded bodies to the Black Hawk. He continued to fixate on the crime scene and soon felt a tickle of bile rising in his throat.