Pug recognized the rank on the soldier’s uniform and addressed him properly. “Yes Sergeant. I have a .45 and there’s also a shotgun in the backseat, and Babe Ruth here...” Pug elbowed Wilson, “his baseball bat is in the front seat.”
Ted spoke up. He had to warn the soldiers about William. “My partner is in the back seat... I assure you, he is not infected... but for his safety, I had to sedate him.”
“Are you a doctor?” the sergeant asked.
“I’m a psychiatrist.”
“A shrink,” the other soldier, the younger of the two, studied Ted for a moment and clucked his tongue. “You’re going to be real popular at Schriever.”
The younger soldier was soon joined by another from the Stryker and together they went through the Ford, searching all of the compartments and under the seats. After the soldiers collected the weapons, Sasha’s handbags and Pug’s backpack, they politely ordered everyone back into the Ford. The three soldiers disappeared behind the Stryker and after a moment a tan Humvee emerged, driven by the older sergeant, who pulled alongside the Ford and instructed Pug to extinguish his headlights and follow closely.
During their meandering drive along the perimeter fencing, dusk slowly gave way to night. In the failing light, Pug took note of the various buildings and aircraft, cataloging everything in his mind for future reference. The Humvee paused outside of the southwestern gate; nearby, two mounds of rotting corpses served as an all-you-can-eat buffet for the crows and ravens.
The entrance was protected by a Bradley fighting vehicle. Two guard towers stood one hundred yards apart, manned by no fewer than ten heavily armed soldiers. After a two minute wait a solitary soldier emerged and waved them through both sets of gates.
When darkness finally prevailed the base virtually disappeared. To ensure that Schriever wouldn’t become a beacon to the dead, all of the streetlights and porch lights had been unscrewed or removed altogether and every window had been blacked out.
“Extreme measures...” Ted said, alluding to the silent lifeless grounds. “I wonder how many people made it here alive.”
“From the looks of all those planes we passed... quite a few. I just wonder where they’re all staying,” Pug stated.
“Those searchlights in the downtown district don’t make sense to me,” Wilson said, staring westward at the ambient light dancing off of the underside of the forming thunderclouds.
“Give it some thought Wilson... why do you think this base is blacked out?” Ted asked.
“So the dead heads don’t get curious,” Sasha said, smiling in the dark. “Those lights must be super intriguing to them. Kind of like Facebook used to be to me.”
“Used to,” Wilson muttered.
Pug continued following the Humvee to a desolate corner of the air base. Soon, out of nowhere, a giant hangar materialized from the darkness and the doors began to part, revealing the muted night lighting inside. The Humvee didn’t slow, it just rolled right through with the Ford still on its bumper.
As soon as the immense doors rolled closed, the red lighting switched off and was replaced by the sterile light cast from long rows of ceiling-mounted white fluorescent bulbs.
“Wow... you could park an ocean liner in here,” Wilson noted.
“Or a couple of jetliners,” Sasha said smugly.
Wilson was relieved to see that the old Sasha was still in there somewhere. He was amazed at the sense of security that a couple of fences and a few armed U.S. soldiers fostered in her… and in him.
The Humvee rolled to a stop and the sergeant exited, clutching the three bags belonging to the survivors. Without saying a word he unzipped the two expensive leather bags and rudely turned them upside down. In an avalanche of bright colors, Sasha’s clothes, tubes, and vials of perfume and makeup as well as her long dead iPhone clattered to the concrete. “A young lady of means I see.” The grim faced sergeant then gave the bags a violent shaking. Once he deemed the status symbols empty he motioned for Sasha to reclaim her belongings.
“My single, airline attendant mom bought those for me at the Duty Free store,” Sasha retorted in a huff. “And it is all that I have to remember her by.”
“Understood,” replied the soldier without a hint of compassion.
Pug’s black REI backpack got the treatment next. His clothes, although not as frilly, were dumped on the hangar floor along with several packages of Mountain House freeze-dried food, a pocketknife and a folded map of the Western United States. The sergeant upended the empty bag but didn’t stop there.
Pug felt his stomach tighten as the soldier rooted around inside of the empty pack.
After the prolonged sound of ripping Velcro, the sergeant removed a distended Camelback hydration system from inside the pack and tossed the full bladder onto the floor, where it hit with a wet smack, jiggling for a few seconds.
“Whose is this?” the sergeant inquired, holding the pack at arm’s length.
“It’s mine sir,” Pug answered hesitantly.
“Sorry I tore it apart. You can take your belongings in with you during your quarantine...”
“Quarantine?” Ted said incredulously.
Fully expecting someone to object, the sergeant rolled out his standard spiel: “None of you are being singled out. Every person coming in from the outside has been subjected to the same twelve hour quarantine. You will be provided with clean clothes and bedding and our well stocked library is at your disposal. Are there any questions?”
Of course Ted raised his hand. “William is not well. Um... his medicine is in the truck and without it he’ll be miserable... and eventually he will die.”
As if on cue a woman soldier in desert ACUs, her face hidden behind a surgical mask and clear eye protection, appeared, pushing a wheelchair obviously intended for the incapacitated man.
The sergeant lowered his voice and said, “Listen... they will keep him quarantined for a few hours... if he is going to turn it will happen soon--if he doesn’t--someone will take him to the infirmary where he will get the appropriate medical treatment.”
“How do I know that you’re not blowing smoke?” Ted shouted.
The sergeant put his hands up in a gesture of surrender meant to put Ted at ease and said, “Don’t worry; the man will be in good hands.” Clearly the discussion was at an end.
Little did they know that each one of them was going to be ordered to strip, while a person of the same gender gave them the incoming prisoner once-over: lift, cough, and spread. This was necessary to ensure the medical staff could check everywhere for bites.
After they were forced to shower for fifteen minutes in near scalding water, the medical staff checked them with a bulky thermal scanner. Lastly Sasha and Ted were taken to another room to have their injuries attended to.
Sasha had a few superficial scratches on her face that only required Neosporin and bandages. She was given a meal and then placed in a locked cubicle with a Twilight novel and twelve hours to kill. She settled in happily enough, engrossed in Edward and Bella’s romance as only a teenager could be.
Ted’s face received the same treatment, and after it was cleaned and bandaged he was taken to another cubicle. He declined the book and the meal; he wanted to get the clock started and the quarantine over with. If his math was right he should be free before noon.
Since both Pug and Wilson weren’t injured, they were fed and offered their choice of reading material and mercifully started their time in the cubicles a little sooner.
Pug grabbed a thick hardcover copy of War and Peace.
Wilson opted for a Stephen King novel. He figured if he did finally fall asleep he’d rather have nightmares starring Captain Trips than the rotting creatures outside of the fence.
William, still unconscious, was whisked away in a wheelchair by one of the soldiers in full level 4 biohazard garb.
Chapter 25
Outbreak - Day 8
Eden, Utah
Eight hours earlier
Logan adjusted his
body armor ever so slightly and moved his legs to get the blood flowing in his lower extremities. The binoculars went back to his eyes and his free hand went back to worrying his long handlebar mustache. He had been lying on the pine needle-covered forest floor with a rifle and a pair of binoculars watching the two-story cabin for the last three hours. Up to now, most of his experience with waiting had been done in the DMV or behind some math-challenged prick in the express checkout at the Safeway. Before they moved on the building he wanted to have a better idea of how many additional personnel and weapons they were up against.
Since Logan hadn’t served in the military, he usually relied on Lev’s or Gus’s opinion on security matters, but if either one of them weren’t available he reluctantly consulted his U.S. Army survival manual for a solution.
The library shelves in the compound were filled with every book that Logan could get his hands on that had to do with prepping or surviving off of the grid. Logan was a pretty good shot. He was also well read and had been preparing for the shit to hit the fan since the day he first learned about the Y2K bug. The event was supposed to kill a good portion of the world’s computers, turn out the lights, and in a lot of people’s worried minds, generally stop the earth from spinning. Logan was in his compound with a few trusted friends and fellow preppers in 1999 when the New Year rolled around and nothing happened. Undaunted, Logan continued prepping for any other eventuality, a financial crash, errant asteroid--anything but the zombie apocalypse which had been near and dear to his heart, but only in movies and books and the occasional zombie walk--until now.
For the past two nights in a row they had detected someone probing the compound’s defenses.
Lev proposed that they have a QRF (Quick Reaction Force) ready the next time someone came too close for comfort.
Chris Levdahl and Logan had been friends since high school. After the two men graduated from Highland High, Lev went into the Army and was later deployed to Iraq where he served two tours, coming back tanned, fit and restless.
Logan stayed in Salt Lake and split his free time between service for the LDS church and preparing for the unrest that he knew was inevitable. Before the outbreak Logan and Lev devoted countless hours stocking the compound with food, weapons, and ammunition. The property was tucked away, hidden and secure, surrounded by dense woods nearly fifty miles from Salt Lake City. At least that’s what they thought.
This latest incursion, number three, had happened earlier during the day. Luckily the game camera that the trespassers tripped captured grainy images of both men and instantly relayed the footage, via radio frequency, back to the security center inside the compound. The men in the picture wore woodland camouflage and were armed with AR style rifles--not deer guns. After calling a quick meeting and weighing everyone’s opinion, the consensus in the compound was that the two interlopers were not locals out hunting game (or zombies for that matter) they were more likely bad guys with equally bad intentions. The group also made a bold decision to turn the tables on the men and make them become the hunted.
A six-person team was quickly assembled, kitted out, and set out after their quarry.
***
Hunting cabin three miles from the Eden Compound
Logan keyed the mic on the two-way Motorola. “Levdahl... any movement in the cabin on your side?”
“Negative... all quiet over here,” Lev replied. He was hunkered down with a Les Baer Tactical Recon bolt action sniper rifle chambered in .300 Win Mag. The scope on the rifle allowed him to cover the west side of the building from three hundred fifty yards, seeing everything clearly through the high powered optics down to the gauge stamped on the nail heads holding the plank siding on.
Logan looked to his right where Chief was positioned with his M4 trained on the cabin. Chief, sensing the scrutiny flashed thumbs up. For some reason, yet to be divulged by the Native American, he insisted his fellow survivors call him Chief. He was the most level headed person among the twenty-two people that called the compound home and by far the oldest among them.
Peering over his shoulder to his left he could barely see Jamie. She wore a ghillie suit which was made up of various pieces of fabric and organic matter affixed to her clothing; it served to break up her slender profile and helped her blend in perfectly with the surrounding foliage. The barrel of her Winchester Model 70 was also wrapped like her suit and pointed towards the rustic cabin. Jamie had been reluctant at first to get on board with her friend Logan’s prepping lifestyle but as soon as TSHTF she was all in.
Lev looked at his watch and keyed the radio. “Logan... Lev here. I suggest we give them fifteen more minutes and then I want to make a little commotion and try to draw them out. They’re definitely novices based on the trail they left for us to follow... not to mention the lack of noise discipline. Maybe they’re getting it on in there. You and I know how the man/woman ratio is skewed these days. It seems like I’m in Alaska or some shit.”
“Copy that... and thanks for the visual, buddy,” Logan said as he checked his Timex. Then he stared at the Chief until he got his attention. He opened and closed his hand three times and then tapped his watch. The Chief nodded. Next, he got Jamie’s attention and repeated the same silent message. Because the Motorola two-way radios were in short supply and weren’t as user friendly as he would have liked, Logan made a note to self to try and acquire real communications gear, especially since they were now utilizing them in a tactical capacity.
***
Ten minutes had passed and the hunting cabin was still quiet as a mortuary. Lev motioned at Gus, a thirty-eight-year-old Salt Lake City Sheriff, flashing him an open hand. Gus nodded, shouldering his Mossberg.
Sampson, a forty-year-old ski instructor from Park City, Utah, received the same silent update from the team leader. He grinned, flashing his newly whitened teeth at Lev and then shouldered his AR-15, aiming it at the front door.
Logan first introduced Lev and Sampson during a ski trip to Park City before the outbreak. When Logan informed Lev that the ski instructor was one of the few that would be welcome at the compound in Eden, Lev immediately balked, calling bullshit on Logan’s judgment and before they were finished skiing that day, Lev and Logan decided it would be best if they just agreed to disagree. There was even a small wager placed on whether Sampson would be a no show in the event of a catastrophe.
The always meticulously groomed Sampson was the compound’s post-apocalyptic metrosexual. It pained him to do so, but Lev had to admit he was wrong when the guy turned up at the compound two days after the outbreak, alive and without a scratch on him. Over the following days he had proven himself a productive member of the group and had also taught Lev a valuable lesson: never judge a book by its cover.
Logan set the binoculars aside and spoke into the radio. “Two minutes.”
Lev responded with two silent clicks of his radio, put his rifle down, and drew the Beretta from its shoulder holster. Then, pulling himself off of the ground, he silently worked his way towards the cabin while remaining inside the tree line.
Lev was about to sprint the last thirty feet from cover to the cabin door when the sound of a laboring engine reached his ears. He pancaked to the ground and quickly low crawled to cover behind a clump of fiddler ferns growing from the center of an old deadfall.
“Change of plans. What do you propose we do now?” Logan asked, sounding concerned.
“Observe,” Lev succinctly replied over the two-way radio.
The growling of the engine grew louder.
Looking at Logan, Gus stabbed two fingers towards his eyes and then pointed at the gravel road indicating he was aware of the approaching vehicle.
Logan tightened his grip on the M4 and made sure the selector was on fire. His attention was divided between the front of the cabin and the washed-out goat trail masquerading as a road where he knew the vehicle would eventually emerge. He was certain that the two men they had tracked to the cabin could be dealt with fairly easily, but the approaching ve
hicle changed the odds instantly.
“Watch the road... I’ll cover the door,” Lev said as the door began to open.
Logan watched the woods disgorge a dirty white Toyota Land Cruiser followed closely by a silver 4Runner. Both vehicles were loaded to the headliner with supplies and sat very low on their springs. Even though the dealer plates were still attached to the front and back of the two new Toyotas, they appeared anything but--their body panels were dented and dinged, and it looked like a thousand demons had sharpened their claws on the trucks’ paint. Congealed blood and other fluids painted the front and sides of both vehicles adding to their beat up appearance. Two men occupied each truck. Logan couldn’t be sure if they were armed or not from his vantage point, but he had to assume that they were.
Making eye contact with Chief, Gus displayed four fingers, relaying how many newcomers they would be dealing with.
Coinciding with the SUVs’ noisy entrance into the clearing, the door of the cabin creaked open, and one of the camo-clad trespassers emerged carrying a black shotgun. He was of medium build and had a long billy goat beard and a gray ponytail snaking out from under his woodland camo boonie hat. He walked the length of the porch exhibiting a slight limp; Lev guessed that the man couldn’t have been a day under fifty. With agility that belied his decrepit looks, the man jumped down off of the low porch and, with a huge grin spreading across his face, greeted the arriving men with backslaps and handshakes; judging by the spirited conversation that ensued the apocalypse must have been treating them kindly.
“We went from two tangos to six just like that... what do you think?” Lev whispered.
“That’s a game changer,” Logan said into the Motorola. “Both of the passengers have a sidearm and I can see at least one carbine propped up inside the 4Runner... on the passenger’s side. I think we should lay low and then bug out when they aren’t looking.”
In Harm's Way: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 17
