Chapter 6
Outbreak - Day 10
Schriever AFB
Colorado Springs, Colorado
Mess Hall
“Eww... what is that?” Raven squeaked. Her nose crinkled in disgust as she recoiled from the scoop of brown substance clinging to the cook’s industrial-sized spoon.
“These are grits m’lady,” the airman replied. He looked exhausted, and judging by the bags under his eyes and the days’ old bristle on his face, sleep and hygiene had taken a back seat to more important things. “I usually whip up Eggs Benedict when royalty is present but I’m short a few ingredients... do you want the grits or not?”
Still pissed from her verbal spar with Cade, Brook unloaded on the man behind the glass sneeze shield. “Listen a-hole... my daughter is eleven. You wasted that smart ass Eggs Benedict crack; it went way over her head, but not mine. And considering the circumstances I might have let that slide if you were addressing me... but you weren’t and you cannot talk to my kid like that.”
Suddenly at a loss for words—especially snide remarks—the man gaped, still clutching in his ham-sized hand a spoonful of paste hovering over Raven’s tray.
The airman had unwittingly set off a mini Vesuvius. Neck and face flushing to red, Brook slapped her empty tray down and clenched her fists. “Apologize to her or I will come back there and make you.”
“I’m sorry young lady... and ma’am. It’s been a long stretch,” the cook replied awkwardly as he carefully spooned the food onto Raven’s tray. And as an amends for his rudeness he added, “The color is just the brown sugar we added. We ran out of the white granulated days ago.”
While Brook’s skin tone crept back to normal, she willed her right hand open and examined her palm. Blood seeped from four half-moon shaped puncture wounds, the culmination of a week’s worth of stress and a few seconds of release. Unbeknownst to the cook, his smart ass comment had set in motion a chain of events that could not be recalled, because in those few short seconds Brook had realized what she needed to do. She had finally made up her mind that protecting her girl was the first priority and had been since that surreal day in Myrtle Beach when Raven accidently witnessed her mom shotgun Grandma. Brook had come to the conclusion that protecting wasn’t the same as hovering and babying. She wasn’t a “helicopter parent” —in fact she loathed them in the old world and she wasn’t about to become one in the plague-infected new world. She would be doing Raven a disservice. Furthermore she had come to the conclusion that providing for Raven was the same as protecting her with a weapon. And with Cade’s absence she was going to have to go outside the wire and help out wherever she was needed. With winter around the corner and the dead beginning to migrate, the only thing that she was certain of was her family’s need for food and medical supplies.
Forcing a half smile Brook said to the cook, “Apology accepted.”
Looking somewhat relieved the cook nodded and went about doing his job.
Brook steered Raven to a nearby table and they sat down to eat.
“Mom’s going to see the Colonel when we’re finished here.”
Raven looked up from her food, “Are we shooting again?”
“No sweetie... Mom’s going to be doing some volunteer work. There might be shooting involved, but just for me. You will be with Annie’s family... OK?” Brook cocked her head to look Raven in the eye. “OK?”
A tight smile flashed across Raven’s face. “I’m used to Dad being gone... I guess it won’t hurt if you go for a while. But you are tucking me in tonight... right?”
Somewhere, outside of the wire a diesel engine coughed to life and roared to a crescendo. Burying the dead, Brook thought, a job she wouldn’t wish on anyone. But if that’s where Shrill ultimately said she was needed, then that’s where she would gladly report.
With more urgency, Raven repeated her question. “Mom... are... you... tucking ...me… in tonight?”
“Of course I am honey.”
“Are you gonna get mad at Dad again tonight?” pressed Raven.
Obviously Raven was a little worried over the family conflict, so Brook chose her words carefully. “Raven... what is the most important thing?”
“Family,” she replied forcefully and without hesitation.
Brook beamed inwardly. Since the day Raven could grasp the concept of family, she and Cade had drilled this simple tenet into her. Brook was also proud of the fact that she answered a question with a question, thus avoiding having to think about what she was going to say to Cade until the time came. Although she thought she had enough conviction and intestinal fortitude to really confront him, in the back of her mind she knew one rare smile from the big bad Delta boy had been known to derail even her best laid plans.
A long drawn out fusillade of small arms fire resounded from the burial detail’s general direction. Anything but that, Brook thought as more shots rang out.
Brook had learned early on that as a parent you didn’t always have to answer every question submitted to you by your kids. “Come on sweetie, time to go,” Brook said, one hand gripping Raven’s, the other cradling the ever-present M4 carbine at low ready. Staying alert, her head constantly moving, “on a swivel” is how Cade described it, she scanned every shadow they passed, wondering how many more like Pug were on the base and waiting for the opportunity to create more mayhem. And though she didn’t know how the damage wrought by one lone man could be eclipsed—she was keenly aware, as the old saying went—where there is a will, there is a way.
Traversing the parade ground, Brook let her guard down a bit to reminisce about her home in Portland and the perfect fifteen-month sliver of bliss sandwiched between two life altering events: Cade walking away from Delta, followed by the Omega virus, which spread like wildfire, changing everything in a matter of days.
Fifteen months prior Cade had finally returned from the sandbox for good—or so Brook thought. He was whole in mind and body, and in just a few short weeks she saw signs that he was reverting back to the old Cade. With his mind no longer down range, his demeanor was slowly making the transition from alpha warrior to family man.
Those good times now seemed a million miles away and a million years in the past. Those fond memories now returned yellowed and fuzzy, like an ancient newsreel film chattering in her brain. Cade had shaken the rust off and was back to doing what he loved. Part of her—the selfish, self-centered part that she rarely listened to—wished that the people who were inadvertently driving a wedge between her and Cade would get eaten by the dead.
They stopped abruptly in front of the vacant Family Resource Center, a two-story brick and glass building which no longer served a purpose. Since the base had become an island in the midst of the dead, the number of intact families at Schriever could be counted on one hand, and the resources needed to sustain everyone else were running dangerously low.
Brook dropped to one knee and looked her eleven-year-old in the eye.
“What, Mom?” Raven said pensively.
“Your birthday is in two days. Do you remember the deal I made with you before the bad things started happening?”
Raven twirled a pigtail between her thumb and forefinger, lost in thought for a second.
Brook helped her out. “Your Dad and I decided you could start babysitting without supervision when you turned twelve... do you remember?”
“What are you getting at Mom?”
“I was hoping you would help Aunt Annie babysit for a couple of days. She’s going to have a difficult time with Uncle Mike gone. You and I both know that the twins can be quite the handful. What do you think... It will be good practice for when you have a baby brother or sister?”
A dreamy look crossed Raven’s face.
Brook capitalized on the advantage. “So that’s a yes?”
“Sure Mom. What will you be doing?”
“Helping out in any way I can. You saw what the cooks are serving, we’re going to need food—seeds to grow food and fuel.”
Raven had shown incredible moxie during their harrowing trip from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina to Fort Bragg in North Carolina. The diminutive girl’s resilience was tempered further by their flight from the Special Operations base as it fell to the living dead. But Brook had noticed a change in Raven’s demeanor. The attack that took place the night before had shaken her confidence. Her affect seemed flat and her sense of humor had disappeared.
“Sweetie.”
“Yes Mom.”
“I’m taking you over to the Desantos’ quarters. And then I have to go see the nice Colonel.”
Clapping her hands Raven shouted, “Yeahhh, I get to see little Mike!”
Chapter 7
Outbreak - Day 10
Schriever AFB
Colorado Springs, Colorado
Elvis stood at the edge of the mass grave. He stared at the tangled bodies which were engaged in a morbid game of post mortem Twister, then let his gaze shift to the tons of infill that would hide them forever.
Not too surprisingly the ancient Anglican burial prose Ashes to ashes, dust to dust had woven its way into his thinking. For his sake he certainly hoped the finality the phrase signified held sway over this mass of twice-dead zombies.
A cloud of fine talc swirled around his head as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves.
The drop from the hardscrabble edge of the pit to the surface layer of putrefying humanity was barely five feet. He picked one of the larger specimens for his landing spot and then gingerly lowered himself onto the stinking biohazard.
Hope I don’t have any open blisters on my feet, crossed his mind, as he let go of terra firma and entrusted the cadaver to support his entire body weight. So far so good, he thought. It held for a heartbeat, and then with an unexpected pop his right boot disappeared entirely inside of the creature’s ample beer belly. The displaced matter looked like regurgitated lasagna, and the smell was a million times worse as adipose tissue and greasy yellowed fat erupted around his ankle. And to add to add insult to injury, before he yanked the boot free, the fluid had already invaded his sock. Fuck, he thought, the flies are going to be dry humping this pair of boots for days.
Once he found firm footing, he gophered up to survey the road which ran east to west paralleling Schriever’s northern perimeter. He saw none of the telltale dust columns indicating an approaching vehicle and there were no stray walkers in the vicinity. Time to make the doughnuts. He had already decided that all extracurricular activities would be performed near the edge. Setting foot anywhere near the center of the pit which had been slowly settling since the dump truck driver had deposited his latest load would be suicide.
Gurgles, hisses and invisible geysers of rank escaping gasses coupled with the muffled moans and groans emanating from the area directly underneath his feet kept him on edge.
When picking his victims he didn’t pay too much attention to the age, sex, or decomposition of the specimen—what mattered most to Elvis was how close they were to the edge. The last thing he needed to do was root around among the dead for any length of time and take the risk of getting bit or being caught with his hand in the cookie jar—so to speak. He noted the time. You’ve got ten minutes Elvis. Get in and get out—was the mantra running through his head. Therefore, since he was already shin deep in the guy’s guts, Fatty would get first honors. Then the badly decomposed female that Bob’s Big Boy was currently pressing his flesh against would be sloppy seconds. Lastly, he would take advantage of the nearby fresh kill. The brunette had been a looker when alive and wasn’t so bad in death. The slender zombie had tumbled into the pit, limbs askew, exposing her goods for the entire world to see. Elvis made a concerted effort to avert his eyes but found he couldn’t help himself. Something about the arch of the dead woman’s back combined with her total lack of clothing tripped the hardwired evolutionary urge which kept him from looking away. It was decided—she would be his last before lunch.
Elvis fished a scalpel from his fanny pack then planted his right knee on Fatty’s sternum. Up close and personal he noticed that the man’s facial Feng Shui had been permanently altered by a large caliber bullet. The impact hadn’t damaged the lower mandible or neck area, but had blown the upper portion of the Z’s skull, away exposing the intricate chambers and channels that had once supported a brain.
Using the rounded tip on the razor sharp scalpel, with one fluid stroke he opened up the cadaver’s neck. The ease with which the alabaster dermis parted, like gutting a trout, momentarily reminded Elvis of a trip he had taken with his little boy years ago. He remembered how Billy had been squeamish and unwilling to make the first cut. That was how he felt two days ago after receiving his orders. It hadn’t been easy then, but he had somehow made that first cut. Now, two days later, he could perform the procedure with his eyes closed and after this final harvest he would be finished with his inexplicable task.
As he made his next pass, cutting deeper with the surgical blade, brackish liquid began to dribble from the severed carotid artery which had long ago ceased delivering oxygenated blood to Big Man’s brain. By the time he had finished his final cut, the incision traced from the cadaver’s left ear, tracked just above his frigid triple chin and finished its journey beneath the right ear where earlobe meets neck. Without hesitation he jammed both latex-covered hands two knuckles deep between the upper half of the incision and the lower jawbone. Then with an upward yank, accompanied by a sound akin to shucking an ear of corn, he peeled the lower half of Big Man’s face—skin, blubber and all of the attached muscles—up and away from the cranial bone. Next he folded the flabby mess over Big Man’s gunshot-stunted dome, leaving unimpeded access to the prizes within.
The rail thin first turn yielded her treasure much quicker. It took a minuscule amount of scalpel work for Elvis to peel away her face. Two down one to go, he thought.
Before delving into the fresh beauty at his feet Elvis held statue still and listened for any engine noises. The only sound, save for the occasional gust of dry air pushing tumbleweeds, originated from within the grave. He hadn’t even decided how he was going to explain his foray into the mass of dead if he were caught in the act. He supposed he’d just drop trou and pretend he was a sick and twisted Dahmer disciple. No—fuck that. He’d rather die in a shootout than even pretend for one second he was a corpse fucker. Necrophilia and cannibalism—without definition the words alone seemed morbid and evil. He momentarily contemplated which was worse—fucking the dead or eating them. It didn’t matter, he finally decided—either way there was a special place in hell for Jeffrey Dahmer and monsters like him.
Fighting the tug of gravity and a pair of thoroughly soaked boots, Elvis hauled himself out of the ground, bellied up to the desert floor and rolled over onto his back. With the .45 biting into his back he stared up at an azure sky streaked with wispy horse tail clouds, then, without sitting up, he unzipped the fanny pack and by feel stuffed the yield from all three cadavers inside.
He was still enjoying the clouds when the moaning commenced. The chilling sound sent his neck and arm hairs standing on end. Hinging upright, he reached behind his back and had the pistol in hand before he had eyes on the walkers.
An invisible hand clenched his heart when he spotted the shambling crowd of zombies. A half dozen angled from the west while at least a dozen were closer and steadily advancing from the other direction. In all, nearly twenty walkers had gotten the jump on him and he had only seconds to save his own ass.
The .45 barked twice sending the nearest creature to the sandy ground—down but still moving. Shit! He could feel his heart rate returning to normal as he made a mental note to self, six rounds left.
Scrambling to his feet he peered over his shoulder at the dozer sitting twenty feet behind him, and then stole a glance at the larger cluster of walkers that were about to cut him off from the Z-proof metal island. Holding the .45 in a two-handed grip, he crabwalked sideways, keeping the moaning rotters somewhat on his right flank.
“You sneaky bastar
ds almost got me!” he shouted.
The intruders snarled and hissed in response and their pace quickened, as if hearing the fresh piece of meat talk had an effect.
Ignoring the smaller knot of walkers, which were still on the far side of the mass grave and posed little threat, he focused on the leaders of the other pack. With the initial shock from the ambush wearing off and the effects of the resulting adrenaline spike having plateaued, his shaky hands steadied and he began to act solely on muscle memory and training.
Still moving backwards and away from the grave, Elvis put the nearest zombie in his sights.
Swishing hypnotically with each clumsy foot fall, the first turn’s bloody, pus-stained skirt hung from her gaunt frame like a butcher’s soiled apron. The hissing walker had closed to within an arm’s length by the time Elvis brought the Kimber to bear. The gun roared, and at point blank range the .45 caliber bullet found flesh and bone. The energy from the lead missile plucked her off her feet for a split second before gravity unceremoniously smacked her back to terra firma where she lay stilled, a smoking powder-burned hole where her eyes and nose had been. The second .45 caliber flesh shredder blasted her wingman through his open mouth. The middle-aged zombie did a whirling pirouette before landing on his side in the ochre dust with a gaping grapefruit-sized exit wound leaking brains from the back of his bald head. Undeterred by the fate of their two fallen compadres, the remaining eight abominations closed in.
Four shots left, Elvis reminded himself. Not good.
A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 5
