Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  “They’ve been busy,” Cade said, pointing out where the median was blackened and littered with charred human remains from a point just past the onramp all the way west along I-70, downwind judging by the drifting smoke, for as far as he could see. Panning farther ahead, he noticed a few Zs meandering in from the west, but clearly evident from the size of the pyre burning, and the bodies stacked and waiting to be torched, the dead that had gathered overnight had already been culled. Same old story wherever he went. Like moths to a flame, as the female guard at FOB Bastion had put it.

  He swung the binoculars right of the vehicles and counted five men and one woman, all sitting on colorful folding camp chairs in the shadow of a large picnic canopy erected just beyond the guardrail. And next to the guardrail was a hand-lettered sign with orders for anyone passing to stop and pay a toll before entering or continuing on. But it didn’t surprise him that the Interstate was wide open. Likely the folks down there had been threatened with serious repercussions if a patrol from FOB Bastion came along and found it blocked.

  Beeson had even stated the night before that due to attrition and a lack of the replacements he’d requested, he had been forced to adopt a temporary live and let live policy in regards to the growing sanctuary Green River had become. The natives, Cade had been warned, were getting a little too big for their britches—hence the spray-painted warning miles back.

  Cade propped his elbows on the Chevy’s trunk and, feeling the warmth of the hot metal through his shirt sleeves, snugged the field glasses in tight. With the magnified image blurred slightly due to the rising heat vortexes, he picked up the would-be welcoming party and scanned beyond the off-ramp. A tick later he froze and whistled softly. “It’s worse than Beeson thought.” He took the binoculars from his eyes and regarded Brook. “It looks like they’ve adopted their own brand of justice in Green River.” He refocused on a flatbed truck that had been left parked haphazardly on a corner lot where both roads from the Interstate converged. Good high visibility area, he thought. Maximum message delivery. On the back of the flatbed, arranged facing the asphalt confluence, were three corpses, two male and one female. Seated on stackable lawn chairs for all to see, they had been stripped naked and posed, each sporting a different hand-lettered cardboard sign. Cade took in the macabre sight, starting with the handless male corpse on the left. The sign around his neck said: Thief caught stealing food. He walked his gaze over the second male corpse. Crimson red from the waist down, the man had suffered a savage V-shaped wound to the groin. The corpse’s face was a mask of pain, and stuffed into the gaping mouth was a shriveled penis, the scrotum still attached. The sign clutched in the corpse’s dead hands read, Caught fucking the dead. And the third placard nailed to the chest of a female corpse with what looked like a single rusty railroad spike read, Adulterous murderer.

  Not wanting to describe the scene, nor thinking he could even do it justice, Cade passed the binoculars to Brook and let her see for herself.

  A second passed and Brook let out a gasp and promptly thrust the Bushnell’s back into Cade’s hands. She buried her face and said, “Animals.”

  Cade said nothing. No way to label the folks responsible more succinctly than Brook just had. So he made three more quick sweeps of Green River, which was surrounded by what looked to be the remnants of an ancient watershed, probably last fully supportive of life when the dinosaurs roamed. The ever-present Book Cliffs rambled off into the distance north by west. Closer in, ripples of hardened sedimentary deposits lent the landscape an unforgiving lunar appearance. And in the center of it all, nestled in a twenty-square-mile gash and backstopped by red rock cliff bands upthrust on a diagonal, was a lush green diamond-shaped tract of land, treed and dotted with tired-looking businesses and nicely kept homes. Cade had received the Cliff’s Notes rundown on the city from Beeson. Apparently it had once swelled to two-thousand residents in the early seventies, had enjoyed a long period of prosperity due to the mostly Air Force personnel overseeing nearby ICBM test firings, and then, with the budget cuts of the eighties, all of that had come crashing down and the city had been a veritable ghost town until the fall of Salt Lake City three weeks prior. Now bustling with refugees, the city looked busier than anything Cade had seen since leaving Portland.

  A low haze hugged the hillsides, no doubt exhaust from generators he guessed had been humming along all night down there. There were a couple of vehicles moving within the city proper, trolling the side streets like predators, slowly and meticulously. Security perhaps? Dangerous for sure. Clothes drying on lines were strung between some of the houses, colorful articles brightening up the place, like lipstick on the pig of a city that was, as Beeson had put it, “A cesspool to steer clear of.” And after seeing the brutality some of its inhabitants were capable of, that’s exactly what Cade had in mind. But even though I-70 wasn’t blocked physically, the fact that several well-armed people and a few chase vehicles were assembled near the tightest chokepoint meant it might as well have been. This nut, Cade thought to himself, is going to take a little cunning and maybe some gunplay—or at least the threat of the latter before all is said and done.

  Just as they were about to wrap up the reconnaissance and return to the vehicles, Cade noticed some movement near the off-ramp. He looked through the binoculars and saw the lone woman and one of the men of the group leave the oasis of shade, head for the vehicles and climb into one of the boxy SUVs. Its headlights flared on and he watched the gray SUV—which he guessed, based on the amount of aftermarket chrome stuck on the thing, had to be a civilian Hummer—reverse down the ramp and perform a smooth J-turn and then slink away silently past the flatbed of death and into the city.

  Not wanting to lose the golden opportunity of dealing with just four guards instead of the original six, Cade said, “Let’s go.”

  Hustling back to the F-650, amid a steady stream of nods and clipped “OKs,” Cade relayed his plan to Brook. Once they had both climbed aboard, the cab erupted in a flurry of activity as Brook keyed the two-way and filled in the others, telling them what she’d seen and what to expect. But most importantly, she made it abundantly clear to Taryn that though they might slow down, they were not stopping for anything.

  While Brook did her part, Cade rapped the transmission into Drive and started them moving. He reached over and toggled the - key on the navigation system, zooming the map out until it presented a bigger picture that showed clearly the course Interstate 70 took past the city. After committing the particulars to memory, he toggled the system off and, with a smile, heard his father’s voice in his head. Heeding that advice, he gripped the wheel two-handed—at the proper ten-and-two position.

  In the back seat, Max, sensing something was amiss and also keying in on the scent of the recently dispatched dead clinging to his masters’ clothing, emitted a guttural growl to let his concern be known.

  “Max is frosty, Dad,” said Raven. Then, with pigtails flopping about, she stuck her head over the seat and was hit with both barrels simultaneously when Brook and Cade barked, “Get down.”

  “And buckle up tight,” Brook added, clicking her own seatbelt home and looping the shoulder restraint behind her head.

  Glancing in his rearview just as the massive F-650 crested the hill, letting loose butterflies in everyone’s stomach, Cade saw Taryn tuck the Raptor close to his ride’s bumper, a racing move she’d called ‘drafting’ during the brief instructional conversation she’d had with Brook via the two-way a moment ago.

  Speeding down the gradually sloping hill, sitting high with a good view of the surrounding countryside, Cade pictured the people under the canopy in his mind. He knew that once they heard the engine noise and looked into the sun and saw the vehicles, their minds, dulled from the monotony of watching the dead stretch of sun-baked road all morning, would burn two or three seconds processing the sight before any kind of a decision-making process would kick in. Then, depending on what kind of training, if any, they might have had in their previous lives, an
ywhere between three and six additional seconds would slip by. And based on his first impression of the crew down below, Cade was betting on the latter before they unfolded themselves from the low-slung camp chairs and rushed to their vehicles, of which only the Suburban concerned him.

  Going by his mental stopwatch, six seconds had ticked by since they’d crested the hill. And without consulting the speedometer, his gut told him that the multi-ton truck, aided by gravity and 365-horsepower, was picking up a great deal of speed. He looked at the speedometer and saw it creep past fifty. Closing in on sixty and figuring they’d already travelled roughly a third of a mile, and without taking his eyes from the road, he said to Brook, “I need you to glass the roadblock and give me a detailed play-by-play.”

  Traveling at the speed of sound—seven hundred and sixty-seven miles per hour, a mile every five seconds through the atmosphere at sea level— the engine roar ripped across the sage-covered flatland ahead of them.

  Five seconds. A nice buffer, thought Cade. But since they were at altitude and the air was thinner, the dual notes reached the watchers’ ears only four seconds after leaving the four-inch exhaust pipes.

  Two screaming Ford power plants.

  Two pickups, both technically not a color. Yin and Yang approaching, speeding up, seemingly tethered together in close formation like a couple of high-performance fighter jets.

  Noticing the four heads turn in unison, on the faces expectant expressions, Brook called out, “They’re onto us. A real big man is getting up. And now he’s waving at us. Motioning to stop.”

  “No way we’re stopping,” said Cade. Then he smiled, knowing exactly what was going through their heads at that exact moment. First, relief in the knowledge that the trucks coming straight for them were black and white respectively, and relatively shiny versus dull desert tan and bristling with high caliber weapons. Gun trucks full of 4th Infantry Division soldiers from FOB Bastion the approaching vehicles were not. And that’s why the fool was flapping his arms like a flightless bird. Cade slowed down a tiny bit. A feint. A bluff that he figured just bought them another six seconds. And shaved another tenth of a mile of closing distance.

  “Now the two other men are making a break for the SUV. They both have rifles,” intoned Brook. Then she added, a hint of incredulity in her delivery, “And it looks like another is going for his motorcycle.”

  In that instant Cade saw their actions for exactly what they were—precursors to aggression. And the only way he knew to counter aggression—the way he had been taught first in Ranger school and had honed later in the Teams—was to hit hard and fast and pull no punches. “And the fourth guy?” he asked, his decision as to their next course of action having just been decided for him.

  “The big guy ... I don’t see that he has a gun. And for some reason he’s making a beeline on foot for the Interstate ... and just turned uphill to the west ... keeping to the right shoulder.”

  “Shit,” barked Cade. “Keep an eye on him.” He rapped the steering wheel. Checked his speed. Seventy-five. Twenty seconds had now elapsed and they were on the straight and level and seemingly playing catch-me-if-you-can with the heat mirage dancing in the road dead ahead.

  “The two are in the SUV now. Driver’s bending forward ...” She saw a puff of gray exhaust. Said, “He started the engine. But they’re not moving ... just sitting there idling.”

  “Good,” said Cade. This little tell all but confirmed his theory. He eased up on the gas, keeping the needle wavering near eighty.

  The big tires thrummed against the pavement, creating a strange harmonic that sounded like an out-of-balance washing machine.

  He viewed the Raptor in the side mirror. Taryn still had it nosed close in on his six.

  Inside the Raptor, Sasha said, “Why is he slowing down?”

  Wilson and Taryn shushed her simultaneously.

  Back inside the F-650, Cade asked, “What’s number four doing now?”

  “He’s still running along the shoulder, slowly,” answered Brook. “He’s no Jesse Owens.”

  Mister Murphy’s taking a powder, thought Cade. Ten more seconds had elapsed and the odometer indicated the crest of the hill was, give-or-take, eight-tenths of a mile behind them. He guessed that the roadblock was two-tenths of a mile ahead and the item the man was running toward was in the general vicinity.

  “The guy’s got his motorcycle on the shoulder now, facing west,” added Brook. “And the SUV is now rolling towards where the ramp meets the Interstate.”

  Cade said, “Thanks ... I can see ‘em clearly now.”

  “Hurry up or they’re going to block the road.”

  No way, thought Cade. They’d have to be crazy to get in the way of all this metal screaming their way. “Don’t worry,” he said. “They’re going to let us drive right on by.”

  “Why?” asked Brook.

  “Because I’m guessing they liberated some State Trooper of his or her spike strips. You’re going to have to take the runner out ... before he gets to wherever he’s going.”

  Judging by the advanced warning that the long straightaways from both east and west provided the watchers from their position, along with the ramifications of their little trap being discovered by a patrol from FOB Bastion, Cade would have bet his right arm that the fourth man still had a little ways to run to get to his no doubt cleverly hidden and instantly deployable tire-shredding roadblock.

  Flashing Brook a grim smile, followed closely by a wink letting her know that he loved her, Cade coaxed some more speed from the V-10 power plant and instructed Raven to shrug off her shoulder belt and lay flat and keep her head down.

  “Down, Max,” added Brook. Then, in order to keep it from whipping into her face, she wrapped the M4’s sling around her forearm and powered down her window.

  Keeping his eye on the road, Cade asked, “You OK with this?”

  Superheated desert air thundered in, creating a savage racket. “Have to be. Just keep it steady,” she bellowed as she pulled her cap off and threw it to the floor. She snugged the carbine to her shoulder and flicked the selector to fire in one practiced move. Then she stuck the muzzle out first and then her head, and finally her upper body, not entirely aerodynamic, cut into the vicious slipstream.

  To equalize pressure in the cab, Cade used the master controls on his armrest and lowered the driver’s side rear glass, creating a sort of breezeway that helped to bring the sonic tempest down to a more tolerable gale. He saw Brook train her carbine on the cream-colored Suburban still sitting idle fifty yards off the right fender at her two o’clock. Another twenty yards ahead of the SUV and coming up rapidly, also on their right, was the black motorcycle, its rider directing a knowing look at the vehicles careening towards him.

  Then the two faces in the Soccer Mom assault vehicle tracked left-to-right and Cade made brief eye contact with the driver as the F-650 blazed past the Suburban.

  Seeing the man on foot begin to slow, arms flopping, head tilted back, clearly laboring for breath, Cade applied the brakes evenly and angled a few degrees to the left in order to afford Brook a better firing angle.

  “I’ve got the runner,” Brook hollered over the wind as two closely spaced shots rang out.

  In clipped slow motion, Cade registered the results as he continued braking. He saw the rotund runner stop and skid, the man’s back heaving, his black leather boots kicking up a cloud of ochre dust. There was a glint of metal in the man’s hand and when he turned back towards the roadway and uncoiled halfway out of a sprinter’s crouch, Brook’s words were already trailing off and a spritz of red had blossomed on the left side of his neck where major blood delivery occurs. A millisecond later, before the man knew he had been mortally wounded by the initial 5.56mm hardball, the kill shot entered his temple left of his ear, a tumbling sixty-two grain hunk of lead that added all of its kinetic energy behind the first and sent the man sprawling onto the hot asphalt, face-down, ass up, dead as a doornail.

  Instinctively Brook tracke
d her rifle a hundred and eighty degrees to the right and fired a four-round salvo head-high at the man on the motorcycle, causing him to dive for cover, the big Harley nearly toppling over on him.

  Hot brass casings pinged around the F-650’s voluminous interior. “Center mass,” Cade bellowed. “No need for a head shot ... they’re not Zs.” From the corner of his eye, he saw the headshot corpse, and then the flare of sunlight off the spike strip which had been dragged three feet into the right lane. Instinctively he jinked the wheel hard left to avoid the vehicle-disabling device.

  Back in the Raptor all hell was breaking loose. Sasha whining about speed. Wilson saying “She shot him!” over and over. Through all of this, Taryn retained her cool and also avoided the partially deployed spike strip.

  Seeing Taryn match his maneuver and the Suburban nose onto the Interstate right behind her, Cade powered down his window, pulled into the right lane and slowed to fifty. Then, inexplicably, going against his earlier orders, he stuck his arm into the slipstream and waved the Raptor by.

  Through the black sheet metal Cade felt the vibration of the Raptor’s big engine hit his thigh as it roared past in the fast lane. He consulted his mirror and, just as the Suburban was abreast of the biker who was not injured but still righting his fallen steed, swerved left and pulled the F-650 in behind the Raptor. “Get ready,” he said to Brook, watching the SUV closing fast in the passenger side-view mirror. Hands kneading her carbine, Brook nodded slowly.