A cold hand brushed his arm, then gnarled fingers flexed tightly around his wrist, dead weight tugging. He whipped his head about only to see, inching closer to his exposed forearm, the clutching rotter’s colorless lips bared tight over a yellowed picket of teeth. He put the pistol to the thing’s head and squeezed off one round. Three left, his inner voice warned. The walker hinged over, an explosion of bone fleck and vaporized brain sprayed the trailing zombies. Inexplicably the skeletal hand held fast. Ducking low, boots churning dirt, the former Husker put his shoulder down and bulled through the right side of the group still dragging the corpse in his wake. I knew the P90X was gonna do more than just get me girls, he mused as he tried to shake the corpse from his left wrist. The headshot creature jerked along the chalky orange topsoil raining brains with each jounce. As Elvis neared the side of the D9 the dead hand released and in a puff of fine silt he left the headless corpse in the dust—literally.
Newly unencumbered, Elvis felt like Superman, like he could leap tall buildings. Cold talonlike fingers swiped at his gore-covered boots as he leaped onto the tanklike treads, shredding both knees in the process. Luck was on his side. His forward momentum had saved his life and he pulled his lower extremities from the hungry mob and scrambled up—ascending the tractor’s frying pan hot armor plate. The badly shaken civilian volunteer sat with his back against the cab letting his breath come back. “Close but no cigar... bitches,” he said as he opened the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. The dozer started up with a high pitched whine followed by a belch of black diesel soot. “You can run but you can’t hide.”
The statement came to fruition for the dozer driver as the zombies, eyes locked on the meat driving the tractor, walked right into the path of the four foot tall blade. After three passes, all fourteen of the former humans were reduced to a dirt coated gray pulp.
Elvis let the D9 idle as he looked at his handiwork, amazed that the only evidence of the zombie swarm that had nearly killed him were scraps of flesh and bone embedded in the tractor’s treads.
***
One hour and forty-five minutes later.
The dirt-ensconced GMC crunched to a halt, and after the pursuing dust tail swirled into nothing Farnsworth slid out. “Bet you’re about ready for these,” he said, holding up a liter of bottled water in each hand.
“Just what the doctor ordered,” replied Elvis, who was sitting with his back against the driver door scarfing down an MRE, while taking full advantage of the minimal shade cast from the small cube shaped roof of the upper cab. “Worked me up quite a thirst,” he added between bites.
Farns paced to where the edge of the pit had been and planted his hands on his hips. He surveyed the darker patch of packed earth and the cross hatch patterns left by the dozer’s crushing tracks. “You weren’t shitting me when you said you knew how to operate a tractor... man you work quickly!” he said as he tossed the bottled waters up one at a time.
“Ain’t getting an hourly,” Elvis said, a grin cracking his features. “I would have stretched the job out a little if I was on the clock. As it is I had some visitors that slowed me down a bit... but I took care of them,” Elvis intoned, shooing the flies from his detritus-caked boots.
“Another load is inbound from downtown Springs.”
With a slight cant of his head Elvis asked, “Is the situation improving?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what downtown is like.”
“Try me,” Elvis challenged.
“Give me a second. I have to get something from the truck and then I’ll give you the Cliffs Notes version.”
Farnsworth returned from the GMC carrying a small yellow device in one hand and clutching his Beretta with the other. He punched a button and the device powered on with a shrill beep, then began emitting a constant symphony of static, chirps, and clicks.
“Is that what I think it is? Elvis asked.
“It’s an RDS-80A Contamination Survey Meter—in military talk. Or in layman’s terms—a Geiger counter.”
“You are checking me for radiation?” Elvis said slowly.
“Sorry. New orders from Colonel Shrill,” Farns proffered as he passed the noisy plastic device over the civilian’s entire body.
Elvis’s eyes widened as if he had just correctly answered the Final Jeopardy question and won an all-expenses paid trip to Hawaii, “The other night... air raid sirens, then those two really loud blasts to north—nuclear?”
Farnsworth grabbed the civilian by the shoulder and turned him around avoiding eye contact. “No comment,” he stated firmly as he finished checking the man for excess radiation.
Nuclear, Elvis thought grimly. And I was knee deep in the fuckers.
“All done, you’ve got trace amounts... we all do. Like I was saying—you gotta be careful. Some of the walkers have been showing up burnt to hell and very hot with radiation. At least you didn’t get a dose from the stiffs you just buried.”
Relief replaced concern as Elvis continued mining the Private for information. “So tell me about downtown. When are we going to be free from the dead? When are they going to fall apart and not be able to stalk us?”
“Well... the shooters have all of the ammo they need to finish the job. Thanks to the depot mission they now have half a million rounds of 5.56 NATO and half that much in various other calibers. The ammunition was earmarked for our guys in the sandbox... they won’t be requiring it now. It is stunning how few came home after this shit started,” said Farnsworth, “and as far as the creatures deteriorating… The doctor who was killed two nights ago concluded that the decay process is slowed down in the living dead’s flesh.”
Elvis took a long draw off of his water then pressed, “How do they get the staggering number of kills without getting wiped out themselves?”
“Listen... you’re a civilian. I shouldn’t be divulging this much to you. This is between you and I... make sure everything you hear stays here—agreed?”
“Mums the word,” said Elvis, pantomiming locking his mouth and then throwing away an imaginary key.
A distant drone sounded from the far side of Schriever.
“Hercules going out on a foraging mission,” Farns said looking skyward.
The engine sounds rose in volume becoming a deafening roar as the dappled gray turboprop skimmed overhead, climbing swiftly away from the base.
Farns tracked the four-engine plane with his eyes then resumed talking when the refueling tanker was out of earshot. “The echoing gunfire keeps the dead interested during the day. After dark the SF boys fire up the searchlights... that keeps them coming in all night. Snipers change long guns every thirty or forty rounds so the barrels don’t get too hot. The bodies pile up fifteen feet or so then the Little Birds and Chinooks come in and airlift the whole operation to another high rise a few blocks away. While the action is drawing the dead to the new spot, cleanup crews—mostly civilians like you—come in and load the dead sleds.” Farnsworth suddenly went silent and gazed towards Pikes Peak. “I wouldn’t wish that job on anyone... we lose one or two a day. All those dead aren’t really dead. The fuckers have started playing possum.”
“No way!” Elvis said incredulously.
Farnsworth said nothing.
Elvis continued shaking his head, eyes closed, thinking about the ramifications. “So why bury them here and not closer to the city?”
“Eventually everyone is going to move back downtown and the surrounding suburbs. This is a better place than most I guess.”
The Motorola squawked, breaking the silence. Farnsworth conferred with the voice on the other end then said to Elvis, “The sled is inbound—be careful.”
No shit, Elvis thought as a chill traced his spine. “I’m getting back inside right now.” He banged on the armor to get Farnsworth to look up. Then he asked in a low voice, arched eyebrows conveying his concern. “Playing possum?”
The thunderlike noise of the dump truck rolled over the horizon.
“Be careful
,” stressed Farnsworth once more.
With a latex-covered thumbs up Elvis answered, “Roger that,” and after double checking the door lock he fired up the dozer. The comforting throaty rumble masked the sound of the approaching yellow meat wagon. Time to make the doughnuts, Elvis thought to himself.
Chapter 8
Outbreak - Day 10
Schriever AFB
Colorado Springs, Colorado
Brook stood before Colonel Cornelius Shrill’s private office, wrestling with her emotions while at the same time trying to summon enough courage to rap on the door.
As if somehow sensing her presence the Colonel hauled the door inward and boomed a warm welcome. “Well, well missus Grayson. Please come inside. To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked, ushering her in with a sweeping motion of his winglike arm.
Brook swept her gaze around the base commander’s office as she stepped inside. Plaques and framed decorations earned during the man’s long lived Air Force career covered the office’s four walls.
Before the Colonel could offer her a chair Brook blurted, “I want to cut to the chase, Sir.”
“What do you need?” he asked in his low baritone voice. “Anything you need... considering all that your husband has done—”
“This has nothing to do with Cade. This is all about me,” Brook said, letting the statement hang for a tick. “I need to do something useful—to feel like a part of this struggle. Cade’s gone—or he will be soon. I want a mission.”
“What about Raven?”
“I’m getting her ready,” said Brook, a look of intensity burning in her eyes. “For the day that will come when she is alone... when she will be forced to fend for herself. You know as well as I do... nothing is guaranteed these days.”
“I think I worded that wrong,” said Shrill as he paced to the wall and gazed at a photo positioned prominently on the wall at his eye level. In the picture the Colonel, in full dress uniform, ribbons, medals and all, had his arm around the shoulder of a much younger African American man.
Brook stole a closer look. Shrill and the other man, who was wearing a flight suit and holding a helmet in the crook of his arm, were standing in front of a U.S. Navy fighter jet. Broad smiles creased both of the men’s faces. Brook guessed the photo commemorated a very special moment in both Shrill’s and the pilot’s life. “Is that your son?”
“Affirmative.”
“When was that taken?”
“Seconds after I had informed him he was going to Miramar on his own merit.”
“Miramar...” Brook had heard of the Naval Air Station which was in San Diego. “Top Gun school—very impressive.”
Silence.
“You would have never left him would you?” Brook asked.
The Colonel’s face softened when he answered. “What I meant when I said—What about Raven... I was just being nosy... wanted to know who you are leaving her with while you are gone? Not—why in the hell are you abandoning your little one?”
“Sorry I took it that way. Raven is with Annie Desantos right now—so technically Annie will be the responsible party.”
“And she’s OK with that?”
Brook’s eyes narrowed. “Who, Raven or Annie?”
“The new mom who also happens to be a newly widowed mom, that’s who.”
Brook took a deep breath. “They are both willing parties. Annie’s a hell of a fighter, but she’s no superwoman. She could benefit from the presence of an overachieving eleven-year-old and Raven needs to learn some self-sufficiency.”
“I concur,” Shrill proffered.
“Where do you need me?” Brook asked.
“They always need help with Z disposal outside of the wire. Burial detail—”
Brook testily interrupted, “What else?”
“Not enough adrenaline in that one?”
“Too much stink,” Brook said, holding her nose.
“Get down to the motor pool,” said Shrill. He looked at his watch and then shot a disappointed look Brook’s way. “The foraging convoy left an hour ago, and the grave diggers are already outside of the perimeter.”
“Tomorrow?” Brook asked with a pleading look.
“If you insist,” he said in a funereal voice. “Make it to the motor pool tomorrow before noon.”
“Once again... Thank you Colonel.”
Shrill said nothing as he strode to his desk.
Confused, Brook looked on.
On a sheet of legal pad the Colonel scrawled a few illegible words, then added at the foot of the page what Brook assumed was his John Hancock. “Take this to Staff Sergeant Lafayette. He’s 10th Special Forces Group—you know the patch. Besides there is no way you could possibly miss him. The man is solid in my book. Good as they come, and I’m certain he knows Cade from before.”
“Before?”
“Prior to Z day,” Shrill offered. He caught himself staring at the army wife, trying to determine why he suddenly felt so indebted to the petite woman. Then like a bolt from the heavens it suddenly dawned on him where the sudden feeling of kinship stemmed from.
“What?” Brook asked.
“I see a lot of similarities between my son and you. His burning desire to succeed and be the best... at everything he tackled. Collin’s bravery and tenacity had been evident before he took his first step. As an adult he just wanted to be accepted as an aviator—no different than any other Hornet driver in a very competitive environment vastly underrepresented by young men who looked like him. Nevertheless I have to be honest with you. I owe you and Cade that much. The real reason I feel compelled to furnish you with a mission outside the wire...”
Looking up, past the dark bags and into Shrill’s red rimmed eyes Brook cut in, “Why, then?”
“We already have a contingency in place for anyone who gets bit in the field. It’s pretty cut and dried—a permanent fix,” Shrill said soberly. “You, little lady, are a nurse. Your skills are in high demand—and there aren’t a whole lot of people left who have worked in any capacity in the field of medicine. Besides I already know you can shoot—seen it myself. But if anyone gets a non-life threatening injury—I expect you to help them out.” Shrill’s disarming smile left his face and he said sternly, “Nurse first... shooter second—after all of the bandaging is done... OK?”
The perceived sentiment, and the tone in which he had delivered it bothered Brook for a fleeting second. Then just as quickly as the emotion swelled in her she let it ebb and nodded—accepting his offer.
“That tardy note I gave you didn’t have any specifics... it just said to give you a shooter’s job. He’s going to probe... bust your balls a bit.” At that Shrill winced and cast his eyes at the well-worn carpeting. “Sorry ‘bout my choice of words... I figured I’d leave it up to you to divulge to the sergeant whatever information you feel is pertinent.” And after a moment of contemplation the Colonel added, “He won’t know about you and Captain Grayson’s relationship—at least not from what I scrawled on the note.”
Brook felt a tingle of fear manifest in the pit of her stomach. She received the folded note, promptly stuffing it in her jeans pocket.
“Make sure you go to the armorer. Have him clean and inspect that M4 of yours. Then go get some Multicam ACUs, a rucksack, and MOLLE gear,” Shrill said as he paced over to the photo of himself and the young pilot. “And hoard as many extra mags as you can talk Lafayette into parting with.”
“I know what the ACUs are but you lost me on the Molly... gear?” Brook said awkwardly. If I’m going to play Cade I had better learn the lingo,” she thought.
“Stands for Modular, Light-weight, Load bearing, Equipment, that’s military speak for the canvas webbing on which you attach pouches to carry spare magazines and other gear. There are other acronyms... but I’ll spare you,” Shrill intoned as he traced a finger over the glass covering his son’s photo while ostensibly wiping a nonexistent layer of dust away.
“Thanks again Colonel,” Brook said as she approached the t
all bald black man, her arms outstretched. “I’m so sorry about your son.” Then standing on tip toes, she wrapped her arms around his ribcage and gave him a baby bear hug.
“Yes... I am too,” the base commander proffered as he covertly wiped a rare tear. “Now get along before I change my mind... and don’t forget your rifle,” he added in a soft but bass heavy voice.
Startled, Brook jumped an inch yet held the embrace for another second as she took in the smiling face of the fighter jock that had obviously made his dad proud.
***
Grayson Quarters
Instead of the dreaded talk she was going to have with her daughter, Brook settled into the bunk beside Raven and began reading aloud a chapter from the Lucy Rose book she had scooped up from the lobby of the base commons.
Before delving ten pages into the precocious fourth grader’s adventures and misadventures both mom and daughter were sound asleep—the victims of a harrowing sleepless night and a long sorrow filled day.
***
By the time Cade had finished getting his lead-out in order it was nearly midnight. He had fully broken down, cleaned, and oiled all of his weapons. His Gerber—the very blade that had ended Mike Desantos’ life—received a thorough sharpening. He clipped a pair of the newest generation NVDs to his tactical helmet. Two M84 flash bangs and two M67 fragmentation grenades found a home attached to his MOLLE rig. He checked and rechecked his kit. Finally satisfied he was fully prepared for the upcoming mission into the belly of the beast, he left the other operators and flight crew to finish with their individual pre-mission preparations.
Since there was no way of knowing who had come onto the base during those first hectic days—good or bad—he ratcheted his situational awareness meter up several notches. With a Glock in one fist, he left the Cushman behind and traversed Schriever’s darkened pathways on foot—alert and prepared.
***
Just hours after Mike’s passing, Cade had started his own impromptu investigation; after his initial interrogation of the killer who called himself Pug he would have bet the naming rights to his yet-to-be-born child that he had not acted alone. He was certain the killer had received help from somebody else from within the base. Pug didn’t strike Cade as being the sharpest tool in the shed. The man had proven to be crafty and cunning but he was no Rhodes Scholar.
A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 6
