Chapter 37
Outbreak - Day 9
Downtown Jackson Hole
Chief Jenkins pulled into the police station which commanded prime real estate in the heart of downtown Jackson. Daymon nestled Lu Lu in beside the Tahoe.
“Am I under arrest?” Daymon joked, trying to break the tension after the somber drive.
Stone faced, Chief Jenkins stared him down and said, “I had nothing to do with those crucified people.”
“Who did?” Daymon pressed.
Jenkins checked over each shoulder before answering. “Spartan mercenaries... they all answer to a man named Ian Bishop. Stay away from him. As a matter of fact... give his men and anyone driving one of those black vehicles a wide berth. If you want to stay alive in Jackson you have to be useful and most importantly you have to fly under their radar.”
“You never answered my question.”
“About what?” Jenkins asked, playing dumb.
“Heidi,” Daymon said, pronouncing her name slowly. He sensed that Jenkins was trying to keep something from him.
Fumbling for words Jenkins said, “She got caught up with the wrong people.”
“What the fuck do you mean the wrong people?” Daymon hissed.
“She was invited to a party hosted by Robert Christian at the House.”
Daymon cracked his knuckles and asked, “The House... the big ass mansion on the hill that the asshole action hero actor used to own?”
“Yes, that’s the one... but don’t get worked up about it.”
Shaking his head Daymon said, “It’s too late... I’m well past worked up... I’m fucking livid.”
“Listen to me,” Chief Jenkins said urgently, adjusting his sunglasses. “Don’t go near him or the house. Just stay the fuck away... or you will find yourself on one of those crosses feeding the birds.”
“Who died and made this Christian guy king?”
“A lot of people died... then he waltzed right in and appointed himself king and that is why Jackson Hole is supposedly the Capital of what used to be the United States of America. Robert Christian is calling it New America and he claims to be the President... if that’s the title that he’s using. But I wouldn’t know because I wasn’t invited to the inaugural ball.” Jenkins removed his hat revealing a deeply receding hairline. “They are fucking serious. Look over there... and there...” he said pointing at several olive drab missile launchers, each as big as an upended school bus and arranged in a ring around the valley. “Those are Patriot anti-missile launchers and they’re protecting the entire city from any and all airborne threats.”
“What threats?” Daymon groaned. “Only thing threatening me lately has been those stinking walking corpses.”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this but after what those animals did to the kids I don’t effin care. The U.S. Government is setting up in Colorado Springs and Robert Christian has his little army canvassing the U.S. looking for arms and armament to use against them and anyone else dumb or courageous enough to stand up to him. So now you know why I’m walking on egg shells here... we are in the middle of a God damned arms race surrounded by flesh eating zombies,” Jenkins said, shaking his head in disgust.
Daymon yawned. “I don’t know anything about Colorado Springs,” he lied. “Just point me to a place that I can call home and I promise I’ll pull my weight... become a part of life here and make the most of the situation.”
“Why don’t you go back to the fire house? Your stuff is probably still there... and by default you’re the new Chief.”
“What happened to Chief Kyle and the others?”
“The entire fire crew was on duty during the Omega outbreak. Chief Monsour in Idaho Falls called for help. You know how strong the brotherhood bond is. Kyle and the guys answered the call. Hell... half of Idaho Falls was on fire after all of the looting. The entire crew went to pitch in and not one of them returned,” Jenkins uttered solemnly.
“Shit... timing is everything. If I hadn’t taken leave I would have been right there with them. As far as the appointment... I’ll accept but I ain’t fighting fires alone,” Daymon said flatly.
“You’ll get help. Just pray we don’t have a summer lightning storm between now and then.” Jenkins slipped the shotgun through the open window and placed it in Daymon’s lap and said, “Don’t get caught with this. Consider it a little insurance... just in case.”
“Thanks Charlie. I owe you one... probably more. If you need anything... anything at all, just ask,” Daymon said as he backed the neon green Scout onto Main Street. And keep an eye out for Heidi, he thought. He couldn’t believe how peaceful Jackson Hole appeared from the outside. Looks can be deceiving, he told himself, as the gears in his head began to turn.
Chapter 38
Mack, Colorado
Outbreak - Day 9
The convoy, forty vehicles strong, ground to a halt near the Utah/Colorado border. Stopping the metal beast was a long drawn out endeavor. The resulting cacophony reminded Major Beeson of a freight train coming into a station. The whine of downshifting gearboxes along with the squeaking of brakes and the rattling clatter of idling diesel engines sent Beeson on a mental journey--twenty years back in time.
***
All of the time spent waiting and constantly drilling for chemical attacks in the hundred and ten degree heat of the Saudi Arabian desert had been maddeningly monotonous. Finally, Bush the first made his pronouncement from on high. Mercifully the Americans and the stalled ground war machine were allowed to cross the border. The goal: liberate Kuwait. The convoy that rolled through the berm that day, 23 February 1991, was no different in sound and smell than the one Beeson now led. Saddam Hussein had no idea of the ferocity of the hornets that were about to pour out of the nest that he had just kicked. The coalition spilled into his country, nine hundred thousand strong, ready and willing to kick some ass.
Sadly, Beeson, a young sniper, didn’t get to fire a shot during the one-sided, one hundred hour skirmish. After the war he rose through the ranks, and after several years spent running ops with the 19th Special Forces group, he found himself leading them and serving as base commander over Camp Williams where thirty-six hours ago he and his men were under siege by the undead flowing from Salt Lake.
***
Driven by primordial impulse, in search of food, the zombies began to amass around the base. Eventually, Major Beeson chose to conduct a strategic withdrawal. Under cover of darkness, the forty-five vehicle convoy carrying two hundred and thirty-seven soldiers escaped the base and the dead clamoring for their flesh.
Major Beeson and his men had only been able to traverse thirty miles over the course of the first twelve hours following their emergency egress from Camp Williams. The fighting had been so intense that all of the vehicles in the column looked like they had been painted in a two-tone color scheme: desert tan on the top and blood red on the bottom. After surviving the exodus from Draper and pushing south along the Wasatch front and away from Salt Lake City, the numbers of walking dead they encountered dropped off considerably.
***
After a day and a half spent fighting his way out of the Salt Lake valley and then traversing the backwaters of southeastern Utah, Major Beeson’s Bradley sat idling atop a small rise in the middle of I-70 near the Utah/Colorado border. He stood in the cupola glassing the valley in the foreground. A menagerie of SUV’s and pickup trucks sat, parked haphazardly, occupying the median and both shoulders of the road where I-70 slithered between two ochre sandstone nubs jutting from the red earth and creating a natural choke point. People moved about in the tree line and shadowy recesses on both sides of the highway. Two black Humvees with top mounted heavy machine guns, definitely not U.S. issue, sat parked side by side defiantly blocking the road.
What troubled Major Beeson most was the fact that so far this encounter on I-70 didn’t have the same welcoming feel that they had received from the smattering of survivor communities encountered so far on their arduous cross-stat
e journey. Looking through his high powered binoculars he could see that nearly every person on the other side of the valley was armed with either a long gun or some kind of assault rifle.
Beeson keyed his mic. “Samuels, get me a range to target.”
Staff Sergeant Samuels pressed his face to the optics mast. “Range... six hundred meters sir, be advised contact approaching eleven o’clock. Looks like a ... moped,” he replied over the comms.
The lone man maneuvered his scooter across the grass median and motored up the hill straight at the lead Bradley.
Beeson lowered the binoculars and extended his arm palm up, silently ordering the driver to halt.
Three SF soldiers from the 19th dismounted their Humvee and with a flurry of movement detained the man, checking him for weapons.
“Bring him forward,” Beeson ordered.
One of the SF soldiers escorted the man to the front of the Major’s truck.
Beeson climbed down from his elevated position and seized the initiative. “Sir, I need you to deliver a message to your friends down there.” The major, who possessed a full head height advantage, approached the young man and stood near enough to invade his personal space; Beeson’s stony stare never wavered. “Tell them that they must put down their weapons and pull the gun trucks aside so we can pass without provocation. Any other actions will place each and every one of you in harm’s way. Consider this your only warning.”
The slender young man looked like he could still be in high school. The faux hawk hair-do running down the center of his head the dead giveaway to his age. He was visibly trembling as the enormity of the situation hit him in the chest with the force of a falling anvil. The men in black had thrust him and the rest of the survivors into the middle of this confrontation, and from the number of men and machines that were gathered on the back side of the rise, the townspeople from Mack and the seven New America soldiers with their two measly Humvees were vastly outnumbered.
“Sir... I’ll tell the NA soldiers exactly what you said,” the kid stammered.
Major Beeson arched his eyebrows. This was something entirely new. First the dead walk and now some militia starts a land grab. What’s next, he thought, flying pigs? “NA soldiers?” he asked. “Now... why don’t you take your time and fill me in, son.”
“Can’t I just go now?”
“What is your name, son?” Beeson said firmly.
“Dawson,” the boy whispered.
The Major gripped Dawson’s shoulder and said, “I will let you go only after you tell me everything.”
Dawson drew in a deep calming breath before he spoke. “These armed guys showed up here a couple of days ago. They told anyone that would listen that it was the politicians and the government who were responsible for releasing the virus on the population. Honestly sir... I was already fed up and that’s all it took for me and the others to get on board with their New America concept.”
Beeson glanced across the valley. The assembled survivors seemed content for the moment, apparently awaiting the return of their emissary. “What is their concept?” Beeson asked. He already knew how to win the hearts and minds of a populace and turn them to his side. Beeson learned the art years ago during the four-week-long Robin Sage exercise in North Carolina. It was the grueling fourth phase of the Q course that all SF recruits participated in. Beeson had put the learned skills to use on numerous occasions since and he had a feeling these NA guys were operating from the same playbook.
“They told us they were here to help us fight off the rotters and all they wanted in return was our consent to use the town as their garrison. It seemed like a pretty fair trade to all of us at the time. We had already taken care of most of the zombies by ourselves and were in the middle of setting up barriers on the roads leading in and out of Mack. The soldiers pitched in and helped... at least they were true to their word in that regard.”
“Listen,” Beeson said, “I know Mack is in the middle of nowhere but did it not occur to you that because your town sits on the Utah/Colorado state line it becomes that much more valuable from a strategic standpoint?”
The young man suddenly tensed and turned the tables on the Major, answering a question with another question. “Where was the government when we were losing our people left and right? My mom and dad both got bit and turned into one of those fucking things. Where were you and your Army then?”
Beeson removed his helmet and plowed his gloved hand through his sweat-soaked, closely cropped gray hair. “Son... we were all up to our necks in this shit show now aptly named Omega. I am done pussy footin’ around. You made your bed... now you are going to sleep in it. Get your ass down there and deliver my message.”
Without speaking the kid turned and shakily mounted his underpowered plastic Honda and motored towards the blocking force.
Beeson yelled down to the Humvee, summoning one of the rough looking SF soldiers. “Sergeant Mackay, get on the horn and tell Springs about this New America militia and set up some security while I sort out this cluster.”
“Yes sir,” replied Mackay.
“Someone get Scully up here!” Major Beeson bellowed to no one in particular and watched through his binoculars as the retreating scooter wobbled and bucked across the packed earth separating the highway.
Staff Sergeant Scully skidded to a halt next to the Bradley and stated, “Sir. You called for me?”
“Scull, I need you to set up quickly. If my first message isn’t well received... then I want you to deliver the follow up,” Beeson said, still glassing the valley for hidden shooters.
“Copy that sir,” Scully replied, while from a hard case he removed a wicked looking long gun with an enormous scope mounted to the top rail; then, as if the gun wasn’t intimidating enough, he attached an eight inch suppressor to the business end. The gangly SF sniper worked silently and efficiently. He flicked down the bi-pod legs and removed the dust caps from the optics and began adjusting for elevation and windage. All of this took him less than a minute.
Dawson jumped off the scooter even before it had stopped moving, sending it skittering on its side producing a cloud of dust and debris, and sprinted between the assembled civilian vehicles at full speed arms and legs pumping.
“Scull, I want the person in charge to be target number one. Whoever the kid takes the message to--that’s your man. Then take down the remaining soldiers first and any other combatants second.” And after a brief moment of thought he added. “If the townies rabbit...hold fire and let them go. Poor bastards got themselves stuck between a rock and a hard place.”
Already busy calculating ranges to individual targets, Scully calmly replied, “Copy that sir,” and then trained the cross-hairs on the man he suspected as being the leader.
Even if these citizens had been coerced by the NA forces there was no way Beeson was going to order his column to turn around and try to find an alternate route. He had already determined that he was going to have to make a statement here... but he was troubled, struggling to determine the amount of force he should employ. That’s going to have to be decided by their actions, he told himself. Looking to his gunner, he ordered, “Samuels, target the Humvee on the right and fire on my command. The Humvee on the left is your secondary target.”
Samuels repeated the orders and said, “Copy that sir.”
Across the valley a conversation ensued between the emissary and one of the black-clad soldiers. Beeson counted five NA troopers standing among the black Humvees and two more manning the vehicle-mounted guns. The one-sided shouting exhibition ended with the uniformed NA trooper punching Dawson, knocking him to the ground.
A sustained burst of crackling gunfire echoed from the rear of the armored column.
Beeson noticed the soldiers and citizens across the clearing visibly stiffen, surprised by the reports. You’re not under attack... yet, he thought. Putting the binoculars down he keyed his mic and said, “This is Lobo Actual... I need a situation report, are there any casualties?” The last th
ing he needed was to lose any more of his men to the Z’s. The slog south of Salt Lake had claimed dozens of his soldiers and at the time he feared that he and the men under his command weren’t going to get out of the valley alive.
“Lobo Three-Two, we had Z contact at seven o’clock. We have fifteen bodies down, repeat, one-five Tangos down. We have no friendly WIA or KIA. How copy?”
“Good copy, that is music to my ears, Three-Two. We should be Oscar Mike in five... Lobo Actual out.” Beeson glassed the rear of the convoy and noticed several dismounted soldiers milling about, but thankfully the only zombies he could see were lined up next to the road unmoving. Satisfied everything was under control, he returned his attention to the front.
Beeson pressed the field glasses to his eyes and said, “Fire at will Scull.”
The sound the bullet made as it left Scully’s Remington at more than 2,600 feet per second was barely audible to those nearby. Consequently, the bullying NA trooper who was standing by the door of the Humvee didn’t know what hit him. A fine spray of pink mist blossomed around his head as his body disappeared behind the black Humvee. Then three things happened simultaneously: the civilians, looking like teenagers running from a busted kegger party, bolted to their vehicles. Both machine guns atop the Humvees opened fire, spitting poorly aimed .50 caliber tracer rounds uphill, and Beeson gave Samuels the order to fire.
Scully targeted the gunner on the right first. The supersonic Lapua round killed the man and effectively silenced the booming .50 caliber. As he sighted on the next gunner the deafening cannon erupted atop the lead Bradley, sending a barrage of 25 mm shells downrange, and before the SF sniper could pull his trigger he watched the Humvee on the left disappear, engulfed in a maelstrom of orange flames and cooking-off ammunition. The NA soldier’s corpse, still gripping the machine gun, jerked once and then began to melt before Scully’s eyes.
In Harm's Way: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 23
