In Harm's Way

by Shawn Chesser

  Desantos pointed out the truck plaza below. “Good a place as any.”

  Cade silently nodded in agreement.

  “Durant... how far out are the targets?” Desantos asked.

  “Eight klicks,” came the co-pilot’s reply.

  “Ari, I need you to get me as close to that brown semi-truck as you can,” Desantos ordered.

  “Yes sir, port side, or starboard?” Ari queried.

  “Can you put us on top of the trailer without fast ropes?” Desantos asked.

  “Roger that,” Ari replied.

  The semi-truck, with the UPS logo emblazoned along the side of the trailer, was parked far enough away from the fueling island that the roof covering the pumps wouldn’t be a danger to the spinning rotor blades.

  Ari nosed the Ghost Hawk down and dove toward the parking lot, flared at the last second and hovered a few feet over the tractor trailer.

  “Wheels down,” Ari said into his boom mic.

  The helo’s internally stowed landing gear rotated down with a barely perceptible whirr followed by a solid clunk as the wheels locked into place.

  The crew chief, Sergeant Hicks, hauled open the door on the starboard side of the ship, letting eddies of wind invade the interior of the hovering Ghost. Thanks to Ari’s precision flying the helo’s landing gear hovered less than a foot above the UPS trailer’s roof. Desantos went out first; he hopped onto the roof and went down to one knee, waiting for Cade to join him. Once both operators were on the truck, Ari pulled the helo into the same orbit as before, staying below two hundred feet so that Hicks could provide covering fire with the door gun if necessary.

  Durant’s voice sounded in both Desantos’ and Cade’s ear buds. He used the call sign that the ground element had been assigned for the mission. “Archer, be advised you have multiple Z’s, one-zero-zero meters on your nine o’clock... vectoring to your position.”

  “Archer Actual here, copy that. Keep us updated but hold fire,” Desantos ordered.

  “Cowboy, I’m checking the cab for hostiles,” Cade said. He padded along the top of the trailer and dropped onto the roof of the tractor, hung his head over and peered through the flat windshield. The front part of the cab was empty, but from his upside down vantage point he couldn’t see past the curtain shrouding the entry to the sleeper cab. Cade drew his Glock and tapped the muzzle on the glass. Nothing stirred inside.

  “Seven-zero meters,” Durant warned over the net.

  “Wyatt, let’s get a move on,” Desantos said calmly as he watched the dead close on them with a steady determined pace.

  “Going in,” Cade replied as he shattered the driver’s side window with the butt of his pistol. He unlocked the door and was inside in seconds. The interior of the truck was oppressively hot and smelled like beer farts and Copenhagen. Anything was better than the smell of death, Cade told himself as he parted the blackout curtains with the barrel of his Glock. Fast-food wrappers and Hustler magazines littered the rumpled bedding in the sleeper compartment. “Clear,” Cade bellowed as he opened the passenger door a crack so Desantos could come inside.

  “Four-zero meters,” Durant advised from his post in the circling helo.

  Desantos scanned the length of the trailer in case there were zombies waiting to take a chunk out of him. After determining the passenger side was momentarily devoid of walking dead, he gently lowered his body over the edge, hung by his fingertips, and dropped to the asphalt.

  “Coming in,” he warned, before climbing into the Kenworth.

  Cade’s head was lost under the steering wheel and he clutched a nest of colored wires in his gloved hands. What a sight, Desantos thought as the door clicked shut behind him.

  Thirty seconds after Cade gained entry, the Kenworth rumbled to life, belching blue diesel exhaust.

  “I think you missed your true calling, young man,” Desantos joked.

  “I know how to jack the newer stuff. I used to poach the Bagram motor pool to keep our gun trucks up and running,” Cade confessed as he manhandled the transmission into gear. “Let’s keep that between you and I... OK Boss?”

  “Copy that,” Desantos muttered with a slight smirk twisting his lips.

  Once the two operators disappeared into the truck, the crew in the orbiting Ghost Hawk could only wait and watch the hungry Z’s creep closer.

  “One-zero meters and closing.” Concern wormed its way into Durant’s voice.

  Cade was heavy footed on the accelerator and revved the diesel engine a little too much before engaging the clutch. He hadn’t driven a truck this size in quite a while and shifting, let alone finding the sweet spot on an eighteen wheeler’s transmission, was like trying to solve a Rubik’s Cube in the dark: nearly impossible. The big brown truck convulsed and shuddered, fighting the weight of the fully loaded trailer. Like a juiced Impala in a rap video, the tractor’s front end launched off of the ground and bounced a few times. Sooty diesel exhaust belched from the stacks in protest to the amateur behind the wheel. After three tries Cade found second gear and the ride smoothed out.

  “Not like the minivan at home?” Desantos chided.

  “I’d rather be caught riding a moped,” Cade shot back as he fought the synchros looking for third gear.

  “Try to wedge this thing between the guardrails... and make it look real,” said Desantos, pointing at the desired location in the roadway.

  Cade took the advice to heart. The truck was rolling along at a fifteen-mile-per hour crawl with a tail of zombies bouncing along, heads bobbing, arms reaching longingly for the big brown semi, when he abruptly swerved the Kenworth into a parked station wagon. The impact caused the Kenworth to shudder yet it kept moving forward.

  “Next time... warn me before you do that,” Desantos implored.

  “Sorry,” Cade answered sheepishly.

  The trapped Taurus wagon complained with the sound of screeching sheet metal and breaking glass. The formerly white guard rail received a gold racing stripe as the fifteen-ton truck ground the car against it. Cade wrenched the wheel left, disengaging the truck from the mangled station wagon. The manufactured collision left the car looking like a crushed soda can.

  “Collision warning,” Cade said two heartbeats before he plowed the semi’s massive chrome bumper into the opposing guardrail. Twenty feet of the hardened steel barrier peeled off like a velvet ribbon, piercing the truck’s radiator. With Old Faithful gushing under the hood, the diesel engine coughed once and ceased running. The eighteen-wheeler was in perfect position: blocking all four lanes of the rural highway.

  “Be advised, there are multiple Z’s on your location. Permission to engage?” Durant pleaded.

  “Negative. Hold your fire,” Desantos said. He didn’t want to leave spent brass and recently killed zombies lying all over the place and tip off the bad guys before he and his men could spring the trap. The freshly spilled radiator fluid might draw some attention but there was nothing they could do about that now.

  After Desantos checked for stray walkers, he exited the cab via the passenger side door and climbed onto the hood of the truck where he waited to give Cade a hand up.

  While Desantos was making his exit, Cade reached under the dash and un-hotwired the truck to the extent that it couldn’t be started again. Then he accepted Desantos’ extended hand and clambered after him onto the top of the trailer.

  “Archer Actual, ready for exfil,” Desantos called to Ari who was circling above in Jedi One-One.

  The moment that Ari saw the operators making their way along the top of the big rig, he broke the racetrack orbit and deftly maneuvered the silent helicopter into position to extract the two men.

  “Copy that, Archer Actual, I’m one step ahead of you.”

  Instinctually the two Delta operators made themselves smaller as twenty-six feet of spinning carbon fiber cut the air inches above their heads.

  Hicks helped the two Delta operators reenter the helo and closed the door behind them. “Archer is aboard,” he informed the
aircrew.

  The second the crew chief gave the green light, Ari rotated the bird while still in a steady hover and nosed the Ghost Hawk forward to deliver the operators to the predetermined over watch area four hundred meters to the south.

  Chapter 12

  Outbreak - Day 8

  I-25-South of Denver

  Sasha worried about her brother. He hadn’t said one word since witnessing the four people dissected alive. She couldn’t blame him for dealing with the trauma in his own way, but she had a feeling that he was just stuffing his emotions and it was her job, as his sister, to get him to come out of his shell. “Quit beating yourself up, Wilson. There was nothing that you could have done back there to save them.”

  Wilson continued driving, eyes focused ahead, seemingly oblivious of his sister’s unsolicited advice.

  Sasha stewed in thorny silence for five minutes before she sharpened her ice pick and went back to work. “OK. Then why don’t you tell me what you think you did that was so wrong,” Sasha pried. She was secretly proud of herself for turning the questioning around. It was a tactic she had seen some old lawyer named Perry Mason employ on an ancient black and white television show.

  “I wasn’t thinking about what happened to those dumb asses back there. That was on them--not me. I’m sure every second of that shit will come back crystal clear the next time I try to sleep... if there is a next time. In case you weren’t paying attention... Wait a minute, you weren’t paying attention because you were in the back seat hiding,” he finished scathingly.

  The redheaded teenager sensed the tables turning on her as she nervously fiddled with her seatbelt. “Yeah, so what’s your point?”

  “After those things finished eating half of our group, they plowed right up the I-25 onramp, behind us, and they’re back there right now. They are following us, in lockstep... every last one of them,” Wilson stated coldly. “And eventually they’re going to find us, no matter where we are. Even if we make it to Colorado Springs. So now you know what I was thinking about before you tried your shrink routine on me.”

  “Wilson, don’t worry, those things aren’t exactly speed demons. They have no chance of catching up to us unless we break down or something.”

  Wilson glared, “Don’t jinx us. Haven’t you been looking at what’s out there?” He abruptly stopped the Suburban, leaving a couple of black skid marks.

  Although unplanned, Ted did the same but nearly drove the smaller Forester under the SUV’s bumper.

  The former Fast Burger manager grabbed his autographed Louisville Slugger and stepped out onto I-25. Wilson strode boldly toward the nearest car and peered inside. Shit. It was empty. Next he approached an older American sedan. The two zombies in the four door Caprice, now aware of Wilson’s presence, began moaning and thrashing around.

  “Wilson, get back in here!” Sasha shrieked.

  Watching the proceedings from inside the Forester, the two men were suddenly at a loss for words.

  The safety glass was no match for the baseball bat. The undead driver stared oblivious and unblinking as hundreds of glass meteors blasted its face. The creature’s maw hung open, longing for a bite of meat, when the bat struck home.

  “That’s for Mom. I hate you fuckers... leave us alone!” Wilson went berserk. He pounded the seated ghoul until the monster’s brains leaked out into its lap. Then, wholly focused on the second zombie, he walked around the car and inexplicably opened the door.

  Sasha covered her face and watched the carnage through the cracks between her fingers. “No. No. No. Come back here... please,” she pled in a panicked whisper.

  Without the door for support, the zombie listed and fell out head first.

  Wilson waited, bat in hand, while the putrefied corpse struggled to stand.

  The monster emitted a plaintive sound, like a lost calf calling its mom, and lurched towards the angry bat-wielding redhead.

  Without warning, a thunderous explosion roared beside Wilson’s right ear. He ducked instinctively. The zombie, probably a retiree in life, was launched backwards into the air. A wet slap sounded as the back of his head hit terra firma first.

  Ted stood in the roadway with a smoking gun at his side. “Enough. You’re putting us all at risk... at least think about your sister.” He motioned at the open driver’s door and the small trembling form on the seat. Sasha was curled up tightly into a little ball; the only thing identifying her was the shock of scarlet hair poking out.

  Every window in the dead couples’ Caprice suffered the wrath of Wilson’s bat before he was ready to return to the SUV, spent and out of breath.

  Ted nudged the walker with his shoe, just to be certain it was dead. Although he hadn’t seen a zombie playing possum, he didn’t take any chances. His stomach started to gurgle at the sight of his fresh kill. The tracksuit-wearing oldster had taken the shotgun blast full in the face and then keeled over backwards, depositing his brains across the oil stained roadway.

  Ted noticed that the shotgun blast had drawn unwanted attention to them. “Time to go, slugger,” he gently prodded Wilson.

  “I’m sorry... won’t happen again,” Wilson croaked. He was suddenly very thirsty, hungry, and tired. It was like someone else had been dictating his actions. He climbed back into the idling SUV, asking himself: Who was that.

  Wilson closed the door and placed his hand on Sasha’s shoulder, causing her to jump. “I lost it. That wasn’t really me back there Sash...”

  Sasha cut him off before he could finish making amends. “Just drive,” she ordered brusquely.

  Chapter 13

  Outbreak - Day 8

  Schriever AFB

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  Duncan filled his cup with the thick, spoon disintegrating, black acid the U.S. Air Force passed off as coffee. He placed the Styrofoam cup under his nose, inhaled, and winced. The steaming liquid smelled worse than it looked. What he needed, he thought, was some of those NoDoz caffeine pills. He was wondering how to drink the swill without being subjected to its odor or flavor when a voice from behind called his name.

  “Duncan Winters?”

  “Yes... the one and only,” he drawled, not knowing who he was answering to. Duncan tried to extricate his legs from under the cafeteria-style bench so he could stand up and face the voice.

  “Stay seated, it’s just me, Airman Davis, we met yesterday...” he moved to the other side of the table and sat facing Duncan. “Captain Grayson sent me to find you... again.”

  It took Duncan a second for his old brain to put two and two together before the name Grayson rang a bell. “You mean Cade? Cade Grayson?”

  “He asked me to deliver this to you.” Davis slid the folded piece of yellow paper across the table.

  “What does it say?”

  “I don’t make a habit of reading my superior’s correspondence,” the E-2 stated matter-of-factly.

  Two aluminum trays slapped the tan tabletop. “Lunch is served,” Daymon said as he slid a tray with peas and something brown in front of Duncan.

  “Shit on a Shingle. Where have you been the last thirty-five years, I’ve missed you so,” Duncan said, tongue firmly planted in cheek.

  “Who’s Mister High and Tight here?” Daymon asked, obviously referring to Davis’ regulation military haircut.

  “Daymon, meet Airman Davis, he’s the bearer of some really good news. We were just issued a helo. Don’t ask me what model of helicopter, that’s in the hands of...” Duncan consulted the note, “a First Sergeant Whipper.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Davis said as he got up to leave. “Safe flight, gentlemen.”

  Duncan nodded in acknowledgment.

  Daymon offered a thin smile and turned his attention to the plate of sludge. “What did you call this?” He speared the mystery meat, turned the fork over, sniffed once and dropped it, food, and all, back onto the aluminum tray.

  “Shit on a Shingle,” Duncan answered. His southern drawl made it sound like a delicacy.

&n
bsp; Daymon held up what appeared to be a piece of green toast. “What exactly is it?”

  Duncan was hoping he could break it to Daymon after he had taken a few bites, but the picky kid wasn’t eating. “It’s whatever leftover meat the cooks throw into whatever leftover gravy they have laying around. And then they slop that shit on top of the shingle, which is usually any leftover bread lying around that’s getting ready to turn green. And by the looks of your “shingle” it was already green.”

  “I ain’t eating that shit.”

  “You mean to tell me that you... Mister Lived in the Country most of his life, Sir He Who Hunts a Lot--has never eaten Shit on a Shingle?” Duncan said incredulously.

  “No, I haven’t. I was a Bureau of Land Management firefighter--not a Gomer Pyle like you. The only army food that I've eaten is one of those awful MREs,” Daymon stated.

  “Finish up; we have a date with First Sergeant Whipper. We may be wheels up sooner than you think,” Duncan said, giving the dreadlocked man a little wink. Duncan already had his ever-present go bag with him and was raring to go. Daymon, however, still had to retrieve his personal belongings from his billet.

  Daymon pushed his untouched plate of food away and stood up. “Give me a second, there’s something I need to get.”

  “Make it quick. I want to get in the air before anyone has second thoughts about letting a geriatric and a hothead take one of their choppers and then tries to have us grounded.”

  Daymon went back behind the chow hall and grabbed two burlap potato sacks from the same neat stack that was there the night before. They were just the right size to conceal his crossbow and haul the rest of his gear to the chopper.

  ***

  Duncan flagged down a passing Cushman shuttle and gently persuaded the young airman that they needed to requisition it to take them to First Sergeant Whipper’s office; the signed note from General Desantos sealed the deal.

  Daymon heaved his two bags of “potatoes” into the stretched golf cart and strategically chose a seat behind the driver. His early morning covert excursion had left him little time for sleep. On top of that, he had a feeling he might be coming down with a bug, and after taking a dip in the dead pool he hoped it wasn’t the Omega bug.