Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Duncan grabbed his binoculars and glassed the bus. Then scrutinized the advancing rotters.

  “Well?” asked Lev.

  A gust of wind rolled in from the east, carrying with it the stomach-curdling stench of putrefying flesh. Duncan plugged his nose and said nasally, “The bus is shot up. Dollars to doughnuts says they tangled with our death-card-carrying enemies.”

  “What makes you so sure?” asked Daymon, trying to suppress a grin.

  Still holding his nose and sounding like Fozzie Da Bear of Muppets fame, Duncan replied, “Because the bullet holes are punched through the roof of the bus. Speaks to an airborne assault.”

  “Helicopters,” said Daymon and Lev in unison.

  “X gets a square,” replied Duncan to a couple of confused looks. “From an old game show ... ring a bell?”

  Nothing. Lev and Daymon were speechless, shaking their heads.

  Suddenly, disrupting the uncomfortable silence, another wind gust swept through, buffeting the vehicles and bringing with it a more pronounced pong as well as a chorus of disconcerting moans.

  Once the wind died down, Lev said, more statement than question, “We’re not going any farther ... are we.”

  “No need,” said Duncan. “Seal up your rigs and turn on your AC. I figure we’ll sit here like a trio of egghead scientists and do some observin’ ... see if we can detect some more of that ... what’d Lev call it?” He cast a sidelong glance and saw Lev staring daggers at him, then, finishing his sentence, said, “... empirical evidence.”

  Chapter 40

  The narrow two-lane passing itself off as a State Route rambled on west by north. Cade looked off to the left at a wide creek bed full of dry channels twisting and turning as far as the eye could see south, presumably to where it merged with the always flowing Green River. He shifted his gaze right for a second and regarded the frost-heaved blacktop, cracked and pitted where it merged with a dirt shoulder barely wide enough to accommodate even the smallest foreign import. A couple of feet beyond the shoulder was a gently sloping dirt wall that he guessed eventually plateaued a mile east behind Green River.

  A quarter-mile due north of the I-70 juncture, Cade brought the F-650 out of a right-hand turn and spotted the Raptor on the shoulder a hundred yards distant. And Taryn was hanging from the window with a black pistol in a two-handed grip, its business end pointed in his general direction. Stabbing the brakes and maneuvering left of the dotted yellow, Cade saw recognition dawn on her face and she lowered the weapon and slipped back inside the cab.

  Brook said, “Where’s Wilson?”

  Cade pointed at the battered white guardrail a dozen yards left of the Raptor. He said, “Right there,” just as Wilson emerged from the lee side of the road, shoving a pistol near the small of his back, and, with a sheepish look on his face, climbed over the barrier and onto the roadway. Approaching Cade’s open window, he said, “Heard you coming ... only something didn’t sound right.”

  “Had her in a lower gear,” said Cade. He nodded at the redhead’s hiding spot. “Setting up your own ambush now, eh?”

  “You said not to call you on the radio unless it’s an emergency.”

  “Good job, Wilson. Now saddle up. I don’t think the folks in the Hummer are the type to be deterred so easily. We need to hustle and find a couple of stalls.”

  Smiling inwardly from the unexpected praise, Wilson touched his bandaged cheek and asked, “Whatcha got planned?”

  “Just get in and tell Taryn to keep up.”

  Wilson hustled around the front of both Fords and hopped back inside the Raptor.

  “What now?” asked Taryn as the passenger door thunked shut.

  Wilson pointed at the F-650, already fifteen truck lengths ahead, and said, “Just follow.”

  ***

  Two miles north of the I-70 juncture they came upon a pair of cars parked indiscriminately in the right lane. There was an older model minivan, its sloped front end punched in, the chipped paint and rusted metal indicative of a previous collision. Angled at a forty-five degree angle in front of the van, and piled nearly as high with belongings, was a Ford Taurus wagon with a hideously bloated Z still trapped behind the wheel.

  Head on a swivel, taking in his surroundings, Cade braked hard and stopped on the shoulder. The ridge that had been shadowing the two-lane on the right was now just undulating desert peppered with softball-sized rocks and scrub—terrain impassable by all but the heartiest off-road vehicles. The creek bed on the left had wandered away farther west a mile back; however, the rust-streaked steel guardrail remained.

  “Perfect,” Cade exclaimed. He waved Taryn by on the left and then made an abrupt K-turn in order to point his truck in the opposite direction. He looked Brook in the eye and pointed down the center of the hood. “Aim your rifle that way. I want you to shoot anything that moves.”

  Brook nodded. Then admonished Raven, who had just popped her head up, to lay flat on the seat.

  Keeping the engine running but forgetting about his bad ankle Cade leaped to the hot asphalt. Wincing, he caught Wilson’s eye as the Raptor ground to a halt twenty feet away. Motioning for Wilson to join him, he drew in a lungful of superheated air, clenched his jaw against the pain, and charged around front of the F-650. Taking a knee, he ripped the all-weather cover off of the winch. After twenty seconds spent learning the latching mechanism, he released the tension, grabbed a handful of cable and, ignoring the shooting pains, loped as fast as he could towards the Taurus. Wilson caught up to him and skidded to a stop as he was wrapping the cable around the wagon’s left front wheel. It wasn’t a AAA job but Cade figured it would do the trick.

  “After I move this beast I need you to unhook the cable and secure it to the van,” he told Wilson.

  “Got it.”

  “Three things,” added Cade. “Keep your ears open and eyes down the road. Watch out for the cable. If it snaps it could whip around and cut your head off. And if anyone shows up before we’re done, I want you to empty your pistol into them. Remember this ... shoot the dead in the head. The living ... center mass.”

  “Copy that.”

  Shooting the redhead a funny look, Cade pushed off the car’s front bumper, stood, and hustled back to the F-650. Wasting no time, he slapped the truck into Reverse and pulled the tension from the cable. Once it was laser-straight between the two vehicles and twitching slightly under the enormous strain, he goosed the throttle.

  The Taurus’s front end slithered right, its tires scribing the road with two identical stripes, coal-black like the light-absorbing marks beneath a wide receiver’s eyes.

  The Z inside moaned and pummeled the window as the Ford’s tremendous low-end torque won out and the big truck angled the wagon into position fully blocking the northbound lane. Then, to release tension on the cable, Cade pulled the rig forward and waited for Wilson to do his part. He looked at his Suunto and saw that a minute thirty of the imagined lead was already spent.

  Another forty-five seconds slipped away by the time Wilson was prostrate under the van’s front bumper.

  Hurry up, Cade thought. He then told Brook that if the imagined pursuers did show up on scene, no matter what arrived she was to take out the most distant of the vehicles. Then light up everything in-between. Nodding, but a little distant in the eyes, she wrapped the strap around her forearm and snicked the selector to Fire.

  A minute later Wilson was scooting out of the way and flashing a thumbs up.

  Cade backed the slack out of the cable and, saying, “Go to hell Mister Murphy,” stood on the throttle and held the wheel tight, watching smoke emanate from the van’s locked-up wheels. A tick later and the old world throwback to soccer moms and pussy-whipped dads everywhere was nosed up against the guardrail. And wedged together, the two stalls formed an imperfect inverted ‘V.’ A five-ton metal chevron blocking the entire road.

  “We have visitors,” bellowed Brook.

  Hearing this, Wilson freed the cable from the van, double-timed it to the
Raptor and hopped inside. He grabbed his pistol in one hand and the two-way in the other. Simultaneously powered down his window and pressed the talk button and said, “Just say the word, Cade.”

  “What word?” Brook answered back, the sound of a high revving engine nearly drowning out her voice.

  Wilson didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing.

  And neither did Cade. His arms were half-raised in the universal it should be here somewhere posture; he was looking for a way to reel the cable in so it wouldn’t get hung up under the truck when Brook said, “One step ahead of you.” She reached over and flicked a rocker switch on the lower dash (right where the previous owner had decided it should be) and then there was a corresponding sound up front and the metal hook began bouncing and skittering and jangling against the roadway as the winch motor reeled it back in.

  Getting Wilson’s drift just as Cade initiated a high speed J-turn, Brook scooped up her carbine and powered down her window glass.

  Stopping in the midst of the turn, a rising plume of blue smoke at the flat plane of the ‘J,’ passenger side facing south, Cade shot a quick glance over his left shoulder at the Raptor angled nose in towards the guardrail. What he saw was encouraging to say the least. Sasha was poking Raven’s little Ruger 10-22 from the rear passenger window. In the driver’s seat, Taryn was training her Beretta down range. And like Punxsutawney Phil searching for his shadow, Wilson was standing straight in the cab, his upper body protruding through the open moon roof. In his hand was the Beretta he’d put to great use against the monsters outside the fence at the 4x4 shop but only so-so against the group of Zs on the I-70 a short time ago.

  Cade listened to the high-pitched exhaust notes brapping over the shallow ridgeline bordering the State Route south of them. The engines were being worked hard, and however many vehicles he was hearing, the carried sound said that they were drawing near. Ninety seconds, he thought, while hoping the bandits were farther away than the engine noise indicated.

  Starting a countdown in his head, he said, “Raven, pass me the black case near your feet.” In his side vision he saw Brook, M4 steadied on the oversized side-mirror. He also saw the trio in the Raptor maintaining their vigilance, their weapons trained on the blind corner five hundred yards south. A second later he had one end of the rigid case in his hands. “Thank you, Raven,” he said with a forced smile. “Head down, now.” He opened the door, lowered himself to the blacktop, rounded the front of the Ford and sat cross-legged in the dirt on the shoulder. The hood would have been optimal as a rest for the weapon but seeing as how the Ford’s hood came up to his chin, the cross-legged stance he was taught in basic would have to suffice.

  Seventy seconds.

  Cade worked the latches and opened the lid. Inside, snugged tight in charcoal-gray foam, were six items: a black bolt-action Remington MSR (Modular Sniper Rifle) chambered for .338 Lapua, its multi-adjustable stock collapsed and folded in on the weapon. Above the compact rifle, secured in a cutout of its own, was a massive Leupold and Stevens high-powered scope. And nestled in lengthwise next to the scope was a matte-black ten-inch Titan suppressor. Lastly, below the rifle’s folded bi-pod, there were three magazines riding in fitted compartments of their own, one already pre-loaded with ten rounds. A habit normally not advisable for storage, but definitely called for in times like these.

  Sixty seconds.

  Going through a series of regularly practiced steps—meticulous and precise like some kind of fraternal order ritual—he carefully assembled the familiar weapon that he had already used to great effect against the enemy more times than he cared to count. The stock folded into place and locked with a soft snik. He placed the scope atop the Picatinny rail, snugged down the quick release lever and removed the lens protectors. Grabbed one of the fully loaded ten-round magazines and carefully seated it into the magwell. Opting to forgo the suppressor, he closed the case and slid it to his left.

  Forty seconds.

  He calmed his breathing and rested his elbows on his knees. With the engine noise shattering the still air, he worked the recently oiled bolt open and, behind a satisfying click, seated the first death-dealing match-grade .338 round into the chamber.

  Thirty seconds.

  Five hundred yards with this weapon was almost overkill and he didn’t have the time to judge windage or elevation, so he said a prayer and snugged the rifle to his shoulder.

  Twenty seconds.

  He placed his cheek to the weld and focused on his breathing. Started feeling himself going into the zone. And it was happening faster than he had anticipated.

  Fifteen seconds.

  Three vehicles materialized around the bend, ghostly shapes shimmering in a ground-hugging heat mirage. Instantly aware the road was blocked, brakes were applied.

  Cade drew up a tiny bit of trigger pull and studied the vehicles as the drivers undertook frantic actions to slow and avoid a collision. As he had guessed, the pursuers had opted to go with Japanese imports. The first of which, he could see through the scope, was some kind of performance model. Out back was a squared-off whale tail. Up front, on the grill, was a constellation of stars and a slew of letters no doubt denoting a certain track pedigree. Then, ignoring everything else, Cade settled the crosshairs on the driver’s head, and dropped that a couple of inches, hoping for an upper-center-mass hit. He saw the man’s startled expression morph to full awareness of the predicament he had unwittingly gotten himself into. Fear crossed his face next—presumably from a sudden understanding that there was nowhere for him to maneuver to avoid the multiple weapons pointed in his general direction.

  Cade caressed the trigger thirteen seconds sooner than his initial estimate. First to the party, first to leave, he thought morbidly as a small, finger-sized hole puckered the glass and a fraction of a second later the driver’s head, collapsing inward, spouted pink mist. As Cade worked the smooth action and chambered another round, a cacophony of gunfire sounded to his right. Closer still, steady controlled pops from Brook’s M4 mixed in with the sharp reports of the kids’ handguns. Amidst the noise he distinguished the snappish discharge of the Ruger 10-22, telling him that at that moment Sasha’s combat cherry was broken.

  The four-door Japanese sedan, now sans a breathing driver, veered right and bounced and scraped through the rocks and scrub before coming to rest high-centered atop a cluster of basketball-sized rocks, its redlining engine producing a discordant oil-starved death keen.

  Meanwhile, the two other fast-moving vehicles—one sporty and very similar to the first, the other a semi-lifted off-road Volvo—veered off in a ‘Y,’ both trying to avoid the static metal chevron.

  But the evasive maneuver did the driver and passenger of the Volvo no good. They died instantly, their heads and upper torsos peppered with a hail of lead pouring from the Raptor’s vicinity. Then, inexplicably, the Volvo continued on. It scraped noisily along the length of the guardrail, spewing trim and leaving a streak of forest green paint in its wake. Then, with the remains of the two in the front seats bobbing in unison, finally the out-of-control wagon plowed into the Taurus, popping its driver door and releasing the zombie inside.

  Before Cade could bracket the driver of the other import in his sights, Brook had walked a half-dozen bullets along the windshield and through the open window, a number of them striking the young woman behind the wheel.

  The passenger, however, in an attempt to save himself, bailed out of the little car and bounced along the shoulder, all elbows and knees and knuckles, and then somehow came up firing a pistol from within a roiling cloud of dust.

  As Cade waited patiently for the dust to dissipate and leave him a clean shot, thankfully the engine of the lead vehicle blew spectacularly. He envisioned metal parts caroming around under the car’s hood. Then oil fell like rain onto the desert floor.

  The loud pop momentarily garnered the shooter’s attention, but he continued snapping off rounds toward the F-650 until the slide on his semi-automatic locked open.


  In the F-650, hearing the resonant thunks of lead piercing sheet metal, Brook threw herself across the seat. Landing flat on her back, she ejected her magazine and slammed a new one home. Still supine, she released the bolt and asked Raven if she was OK. From the back seat Raven issued a querulous and tense affirmative.

  Praying her abs would hold her steady, Brook raised her upper body a few degrees into a half sit-up and then sighted over the lower sill of the passenger glass. Settling the holographic pip on the shooter, she got off two shots to no good effect just as the man swiveled around to look towards the high-centered Japanese import.

  Seeing the driver of the lead car alive and sneering over the steering wheel one moment, then half of the flesh blown from his face the next brought home the enormity of the situation. Hands shaking, Sasha watched the little car veer off into the desert. Then, with a flurry of gunfire ringing out above and to the right of her, she scrunched low over the rifle like Brook had taught her. She looked down the barrel and trained it on the green car’s splintering windshield and pulled the trigger. After a handful of seconds, the latter half of which she had her eyes squeezed shut, the rifle was empty and the wagon was no longer moving and had become wedged tight against the grandma car and guardrail. What, if any, effect she’d had on the outcome was lost on her. It had all happened so fast. But the front seat occupants were dead. That much was clear. Then the screaming started and as she looked on, horrified, the recently freed monster made a clumsy pirouette, staggered a couple of steps toward the smoking car, then thrust its head and entire upper body through the shattered side windows. As the wailing rose in crescendo and the rotting cadaver wormed its way into the back seat, the realization that she may have contributed directly to the deaths of the car’s three occupants dawned on her, and like a hot acidic tsunami, vomit sluiced from her mouth.

  Through the diminishing veil of airborne silt, Cade saw the shooter simultaneously drop the magazine from his weapon and stand and turn towards the dying car.