A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  When the Ghost Hawk finished the final approach, Cade and Hicks emptied their mags into the walkers and prepared for egress.

  As the ground rushed up, Cade crouched low and steadied his breathing. He changed mags and charged his silenced SCAR, then, following Lopez’s lead, performed a hasty signing of the cross.

  Before the wheels kissed the tarmac, Hicks’s boots hit the ground running. He took a few long strides aft, brought his M4 to bear, and engaged three walkers, one female and two male, who were dangerously close to the spinning tail rotor. The nearest Z, an elven-featured female clad in a summery ensemble consisting of a watermelon hued halter top complete with spaghetti straps and a pair of white, hip hugging short-shorts, caught his first salvo. Three rounds of 5.56 hardball walked from her pointed chin to the hairline above her right eye. The petite creature’s pale emaciated body rocketed from the ground following the same trajectory as the scrambled contents of her cranium. While airborne, her corpse completed a half twist compliments of the triple mule kick delivered by the bullets’ kinetic energy, and then, arms outstretched performed a perfect face first Pete Rose slide in her own moist gray matter.

  Safe, Hicks thought as he swept the black rifle to the right. And with very little room for error sent a three round burst into each of the flanking male walkers, pulping their pallid faces in the process. “Ari, your six is clear,” he said as the monsters’ putrid bodies fell dangerously close to the whirring tail rotor.

  Hicks looked over his shoulder. Satisfied his backups had exited the black helo, he put the M4 to his shoulder, and then set off for the nearest tanker truck, engaging targets on the run as he threaded through the zombie throng.

  Durant watched awestruck as Hicks dropped four walkers in quick succession, dinging the last creature on the forehead point blank and relocating shards of skull and brain onto the broiling tarmac. “Didn’t know Hicksy could shoot like that.”

  “Neither did I, Night Stalker, neither did I,” Ari admitted.

  Hicks couldn’t see the other two operators but he knew they were there. He could hear the pings of brass hitting blacktop, and the rapid-fire clanking coming from the piston driven bolts on the silenced rifles as the spent shell casings spit out and live rounds chambered.

  Hicks let his rifle dangle from its center point sling as he navigated the sea of leaking bodies, his boots sending spent shell casings skittering in all directions. Lots of brass, he thought, someone fought hard for their fuel.

  Three left. He had purposefully left the creatures nearest the tanker alone. They were going to have to be killed up close and personal. The last thing he needed was an errant round igniting the tanker and roasting him, the Ghost Hawk, her crew, and the dismounts.

  “Your six is clear Hicks... just those three that I can see,” said Durant, starting his play-by-play as Hicks slowed to a walk and drew his combat knife. Durant remained radio silent, and watched as the stout SOAR operator covered the last ten feet in a combat crouch, clutching his Cold Steel blade right handed.

  ***

  Taryn listened as Dickless clomped down the steps. Silently, she hoped the monster who used to be her boss would take a tumble and break a leg. For a heartbeat she contemplated opening the office door and kicking the pusbag between the shoulder blades. Anything, she thought, to keep the rancid thing downstairs permanently.

  At least the decomposing asshole would never again say, “Another new tattoo Taryn? Better cover that up Taryn.”

  Nor would he ever again condescendingly talk down to her, “What are you going to do for a real job when you grow up Taryn? Stock the cups Taryn. They’re not going to stock themselves Taryn. ”

  She had never before wished anyone dead let alone Richard, but judging how things ended up it was obvious someone had. For Christ’s sake, the asshat wouldn’t even let her plug her battery challenged iPhone into the kiosk’s extra electrical outlet while she worked. “You don’t pay the electric bill,” he had said at the time. So she brought her little solar panel phone charger to work with her just to spite the fucker.

  Taryn waited until Dickless was out of ear shot, then, curiosity getting the better of her, she arose from the floor and padded across the carpet to the wall of windows that wrapped around the elevated office.

  Dickless lurched over to the floor-to-ceiling windows where the creature Taryn called Subway Karen (due to her soiled, garish colored uniform with nametag still attached) stood with her distended stomach pressed tightly to the glass. As soon as Dickless formed up next to the former sandwich artist a steady low pitched moan escaped her unmoving lips. And while Taryn watched from on high, a half dozen other nameless creatures trudged to the windows and jostled for a spot.

  That leaves four of those things unaccounted for, thought Taryn. Three passengers from one of the doomed planes still stalked the concourse, all three of which she hadn’t seen in a few days. Then there was Chester the baggage porter. The fifty-something had been a little on the slow side. Taryn had heard people like Chester described as touched. Although far from politically correct, she preferred saying: The wheel is spinning, but the hamster is missing.

  During her grueling three year stint at the “Bucks,” a day hadn’t gone by when she didn’t serve Chester at least one black Pikes. He seemed to be at the airport night and day. Well, Taryn mused, Chester’s had his last Pikes, and he isn’t leaving for home anytime soon.

  Olivia, one of Taryn’s co-workers, had once pointed out that Chester lived for the tips—though strangely enough he never ponied up one as appreciation for his piping hot Pikes. After hearing that little tidbit Taryn supposed the man was probably afraid that if he went home he might miss the big one. Well Chester, Taryn surmised, if that gigantic tip hasn’t hit your palm during your twenty year stint, chances are it never will. She had wanted to break it to him earlier but hadn’t had the heart. And now that he was one of them, she was glad that she hadn’t. After all, who was she to put the damper on someone else’s hopes and dreams?

  Shoulda gone home when you had the chance Chester... I wish I would have.

  Taryn was pretty sure there were only twelve walking corpses on this side of the concourse. Only, she thought. Even one of the walking corpses made escaping from the airport seem impossible. At first, a mere glance at one of the dead caused her to immediately seize up. Little by little she was getting used to looking at them. Their stench—not so much.

  As for the south side census, she knew the zombies were there. She had heard them moaning from time to time, but because of the bend in the building she hadn’t been able to see them or get an accurate head count.

  “What the hell are you two gawking at?” Taryn said softly as she low crawled to a better vantage point and peered along their sight lines. Shit, was the first thing that came to mind when she spotted the wasp-looking aircraft sitting adjacent to the runway with its slow spinning rotors throwing blinding daggers of sunlight her way.

  Looks like the black helicopters that refueled here the day before yesterday... only silent and sleek, she thought to herself. She hadn’t liked the looks of the men in black who had jumped out of those first two noisy helicopters, and she didn’t quite know what to make of these guys in tan and their whisper quiet, spaceship-looking helicopter.

  While she watched, a lone man wearing a short half helmet and carrying a black rifle sprinted to the refueling trucks, shooting as he went. Three other men wearing the same tan uniforms fanned out and seemed to be watching out for the first man.

  Even though Taryn couldn’t hear the soldiers’ black guns, her intuition told her what the recurring winks of orange meant. The men were shooting at the creatures, and in response the creatures were falling left and right.

  Good guys or bad guys? She didn’t know what to do. The sobs came in waves and her body convulsed. She expelled a long drawn out sigh, took a deep breath, and then emitted a guttural soul shuddering sound into her clenched fists.

  Fearing that her outburst had summoned Richa
rd and the gang but too afraid to look, she remained out of sight and scrutinized the chipped black polish on her nails. The fact that Dickless hadn’t hassled her over them was a mystery that died with him. Beads of sweat rolled from her face forming a tiny pool on the carpet an inch from her nose. Finally she summoned the courage, raised her head, and stole another look. The lone man had made his way to the fuel trucks and it appeared that he was being attacked by three of the monsters.

  Taryn sighed as she came to the realization she wasn’t wired for this, and now having lost the distraction provided by the soldiers it was too late to bolt for the revolving doors and try to get home.

  She heard the footfalls of the dead once again climbing the stairway to her own personal hell on earth. She had exiled herself in her dead boss’s office, was down to her last Luna Bar, and nearly out of water. What a way to die, she thought.

  Chapter 20

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Jackson Hole, Wyoming

  Except for beginning his search at the bar where Heidi worked, Daymon had no clear idea how he was going to find his girl. Filled more with fear than hope, he stepped out of the quiet old building and into the mid-morning sun. And since he had already poked around the Firehouse the day before, checking every crack and crevice and finding it completely empty, he locked the thick iron door on the way out, hoping to keep it that way.

  Lu Lu was out front right where he had left her, blocking the immense roll up doors and the relic of a fire engine contained within. What the hell, Daymon thought. Someone, Police Chief Jenkins he presumed, had spray painted a large letter E on the Scouts’ driver’s side door. The amateur job, complete with rivulets of black paint that had run down and dripped on the concrete before drying, made Lu Lu look like an entrant in some rural demolition derby. In disbelief, he skirted the truck noting that the passenger door had also been tagged with the same hastily applied markings.

  Daymon shook his head. What’s next? Tattoos on the inner forearm? The bad vibe he was feeling in Jackson Hole was so strong that he almost wished he would have stayed aboard the Black Hawk piloted by the crazy flyboy Duncan and gone ahead to Eden instead of being dropped off in Driggs. Furthermore, he couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that he might have traded one type of prison for another. Though he never told Duncan, the need to leave Schriever and find Heidi easily overrode every other impulse. Besides, he could never see himself acclimating to the structured nature of life on the Air Force Base, nor getting used to the cramped quarters and razor wire topped fencing which only heightened his claustrophobia.

  Jackson Hole, on the other hand, had seemed like a no brainer. That was all before Chief Jenkins filled him in on this New America nonsense.

  I hope this thing heals before I have to leave this place in the rearview, he thought to himself, wincing with each twist of his torso as he folded his lanky body into the truck.

  As he backed Lu Lu into the street, two tadpole-looking helicopters tore up the air overhead. He watched as they gained altitude, climbing steeply, and then continued on a northwest heading towards the Teton Pass roadblock thousands of feet above the valley floor. He could have sworn the all black aircraft bore the same red and white flag as he had seen on the black Humvees in Driggs and the lone Hummer at the Teton Pass the day before. A sense of foreboding fell over him as he processed how many obstacles stood in the way of him ever reuniting with Heidi.

  To keep his rubbernecking to a minimum and remain as inconspicuous as possible he practiced moving only his eyes as he drove the streets of Jackson. Except for the lack of tourists who usually wandered the streets at this hour in search of a morning cup of Joe, everything about downtown remained virtually the same.

  He turned right and wheeled down Main Street which was deserted save for a couple of tanned men busy preening and watering the colorful wildflowers bursting from their planter boxes. One of the men looked up from his chore, furrowed his brow, and shot him an angry contempt filled glare.

  What the fuck did I do to you hombre, Daymon thought as the glitzy Silver Dollar sign redirected his attention from the budding resentment. His longtime girlfriend had been lead bartender there year round since cracking the rotation a number of years ago. The money was so good that nobody left willingly. Usually when a position opened up at the hot downtown night spot—someone had either died or screwed up and gotten fired. Old Earl, who had helmed the Dollar from behind the bar for more than three decades, died the victim of a massive coronary at the age of sixty-nine doing what he loved. Earl’s unfortunate demise opened up the much sought after full time position for Heidi and she had been there since.

  Steeling himself against the disappointment he was certain to experience, Daymon set his jaw and nosed Lu Lu into the curb.

  Ignoring the blinking time expired warning on the solar powered parking meter he set a course for the cowhide-swathed door. Using only his body weight and not his core muscles, he pushed on the steer horn door handle and discovered the Silver Dollar Cowboy Bar unlocked. Strange, he thought. The bar thrived on late night business and wasn’t usually open this early. “Hello, anyone in here?”

  Golden dust motes hovered in the air, which Daymon noticed lacked the usual stale beer, bleach tinged, mop water odor usually prevalent after a wham bam night at the Silver Dollar Cowboy Bar. The rowdy honkytonk, which was located conveniently within staggering distance of the handful of hotels and motels peppering downtown Jackson Hole, was the place to see and be seen in the tourist town. Why it was open during the zombie apocalypse baffled him.

  Daymon ran his hand over the richly lacquered bar top admiring the embedded silver coins before giving it a couple of sharp raps. “Hellooo, anyone in here?” he yelled.

  A hollow thump sounded from underneath the counter. Then a man hinged up, massaging the back of his head. He fumbled in his pockets, produced a pair of bifocals, and donned them as he spoke. “Just me... the owner... doing a little refrigeration work. I woulda called someone in to fix it, but seeing as how the phones don’t work and all of my employees are gone...” The sixty-something, barrel chested man stopped mid-sentence and paused for a beat, “Daymon! Well, well... what a sight for sore eyes. I had a feeling I’d served you your last beer. What’ll you be havin’?”

  “Whatever you’re pouring, Gerald,” Daymon answered as he put his boot in the stirrup and carefully bellied up to the bar. Festooned with too many Morgan silver dollars to count, the bar top ran the length of the building, finally wrapping around like a corral encircling the well-worn mechanical bull. It was rumored among the locals that a million of the antique silver dollars were used to decorate the saloon and restaurant. Although a little small to accommodate a man of his length for any duration, he still got a kick out of the real leather saddles that served as bar seating.

  Emanating from the airspace above the Silver Dollar, Daymon recognized the unmistakable sound of the little black helicopters as they buzzed the city center low and fast. He looked at the hewn timber ceiling and listened to the rotor noise pass from left to right.

  Gerald hitched up his pants and cleared his throat. “Since you’re an Essential—how about a few fingers of Knob Creek?” he said with a nod and a conspiratorial wink.

  Daymon noted that the word ‘Essential’ didn’t come easy to Gerald. Then a light bulb popped inside of his head. The stenciled E on Lu Lu stands for Essential. He felt like a dumbass and a little foolish for not realizing earlier the reason he was on the receiving end of so many dirty looks. Hell, the only two vehicles he encountered had given Lu Lu the right of way on the road and that hadn’t registered either. Still he remained extremely pissed off that Lu Lu had been desecrated during the night. How did I not put two and two together? Then after a couple of heartbeats he answered, “Knob Creek is better than perfect.”

  “Now son—two fingers is neat...not perfect,” Gerald said emitting a wheeze tinged laugh.

  Daymon tented his fingers and put his elbows on the bar top. “As long as it’s
wet and it helps me forget.” Then he smiled—probably for the first time since the smart ass Duncan dropped him off in Driggs.

  Daymon watched the owner-cum-repairman, cum-bartender stretch on his tip toes to retrieve the square bottle from the top shelf.

  “I presume you are looking for Heidi,” Gerald said as he poured four fingers of the tawny amber bourbon into a tumbler. “And I have a feeling that what I’m about to tell you isn’t going to sit well,” he added as he slid the glass to Daymon.

  Over drinks in the dimly lit bar Gerald recounted how one of Robert Christian’s recruiters came to the bar at closing the Monday after the outbreak. “So this little guy — along with a couple of rough looking fellas... all armed of course...” Gerald raised his bushy eyebrows an inch. “They weren’t soldiers yet they openly carried automatic weapons... you’ve seen ‘em... the kind with all of the doo dads attached. Like in the movies you know. Then Flat face... that’s the little one—he puts his pistol on the bar top like he’s Billy the Kid in an old western saloon. Then the little roach”—holding his hand near his chin—“he looks up at me and says he’s borrowing all of my lady servers for a party at the House. You know the place on the—”

  Not wanting Gerald to waste more words than necessary Daymon interrupted, “Yeah... I know the place. That movie star’s palace on the hill—whatever happened to Mr. Action Flick anyway?”

  “I hope the joker ended up a meal for one of his former fans. What a sight that woulda been,” Gerald wheezed. “But I digress. That party wasn’t thrown by the Tinsel Town Turd. A fella named Robert Christian—real big money guy from Atlanta. He took over Jackson a couple days after the outbreak.”

  “Was Heidi one of the girls they kidnapped?” Daymon asked.