A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Disgusted with herself, she grabbed a magazine from the bench seat and fed the M4.

  Wilson remained quiet. He tilted his head back looking wild eyed and tapped himself on the chest.

  “What,” she said breathlessly. “I’m too old to play charades.”

  The psychologically imposed dam finally broke and Wilson drew a lungful of carrion-scented oxygen.

  “Bad news...” he took a few deep breaths before saying, “the general... I think he knows you left the truck... or maybe he heard your gunshots. Anyway he was just on the radio... and he sounded really effin pissed off.”

  Brook said nothing.

  Wilson’s heavy panting was the only sound in the cab.

  “You look like you just finished the marathon,” Brook said glancing sideways at the redhead. “I was the one doing the dirty work. Pull it together kid.”

  “While you were out I had a panic attack.”

  Brook put on her nurse’s hat. “How often do you suffer from them?”

  “Used to happen only when I had to deal with an irate Fast Burger customer,” he answered through clenched teeth. “The general sounded like one of them... times a million... I do not want to be on his bad side.”

  “That excursion...me leaving the truck, that is to be kept between you and me,” Brook said icily as she swapped out the empty mag. Then she took a quick inventory; she still had four fully loaded magazines plus the one in the rifle.

  Kneading the steering wheel Wilson asked, “Why did you do that?”

  “I didn’t think—I just acted—that girl could have just as easily been my daughter. She was in danger Wilson...”

  “Next time you decide on your own to act... ask me first. I had nothing but the baseball bat for protection. You left me high and dry. Even Pug wouldn’t have done that—”

  Brook shot an angry glare his way.

  Wilson sensed something in his peripheral vision, then slowly panned his head to the right. The unpleasant smell of cordite hit his nose first. Then the realization he was staring down the barrel of the crazy bitch’s assault rifle made his heart misfire.

  “Take it back...”

  Wilson pursed his lips in defiance, staring down the business end of the rifle.

  Brook kept the M4 tucked tightly against her shoulder, Wilson in her sights.

  The sounds of grinding gears and revving engines filtered in as the two vehicles in front continued their tug-of-war.

  General Gaines’ voice emanated from the two-way radio, ending the tense moment. “Dakota truck... we do not have a visual on you. Come in if you copy. Dakota—come in. Reply if you can hear me.”

  “Take it back,” Brook hissed.

  “You gonna answer the man—cause I’m not.”

  With her free hand she snatched up the blaring radio, threw it in the glove box, and slammed the door. “Take it back...” Then all of a sudden, as if a switch were flicked, the fight seemed to leave her body. Her shoulders slumped. She lowered the carbine and in a funereal voice whispered, “Pug killed my brother.”

  Wilson cast his eyes forward and tried to process the information.

  That is why she is so interested in Ted. “Sorry to hear that,” said Wilson. “I would have never implied what I did had I known about your brother.”

  Brook took a full breath and nearly retched. Though the air in the truck smelled of death and fear-laced sweat, it was the fact that she had just pointed a loaded weapon at an innocent person who was no different than her that made her stomach churn. “Sorry,” she croaked between coughs.

  “No problem. Promise me two things though.”

  A pained look settled on Brook’s face. She couldn’t believe that a few words had been enough to trigger that kind of response in her. “Sure... anything... and I am so sorry for what I just did... it won’t happen again, I promise.”

  “That gets one of my requests out of the way. Number two... you get to deal with the general.”

  “I’ll take the heat,” she proffered. “I saw my baby on that porch...” Though she didn’t fully believe her words she added, “Gaines will understand.”

  Wilson sighed in relief.

  The MRAP and U-Haul gassed forward at once and after a piercing screech finally separated.

  “Go, go, go,” said Brook as she rolled her window to the top.

  “Thank God!” Wilson whooped. “We’re moving again.” He urged the accelerator, leaving the small clutch of hungry creatures grasping at thin air.

  Brook kept her gaze on the crumpled unmoving bodies as Wilson accelerated and the gray mansion shrank from sight, then she said a prayer of thanks for not having to meet the girl’s eyes when she delivered the mercy shots. One less face to add to her nightmares, she thought mournfully.

  As quickly as the fog of war had descended on the convoy—throwing everything into chaos—it had dissipated and the comms once again went silent.

  All thirteen vehicles were on the move; handprints and gore smears from the zombie throng traced their sides, yet all of the civilians had made it through alive.

  “Outstanding, ladies and gentlemen!” said Gaines over the two-way radio in what Brook thought was much too cheerful of a voice for someone riding the tip of the spear.

  Wilson pried one of his cramped hands from the wheel and removed his sweat-ringed hat. “That was fucking close.”

  Brook pulled wet strands of hair away from her face and tucked them behind her ears. “No shit,” she said in a low voice, “they show up all at once... and their numbers.” She shivered.

  “You think they were residents?”

  “Some of them, but I’d bet this place has more than two gates and one of the others must have been compromised.”

  “Where do you think they came from?” Wilson wondered aloud.

  “They looked pretty beat up—road weary sort of—they could have come from anywhere... but my guess is Colorado Springs or Pueblo,” Brook proffered.

  “There’s over a hundred thousand people in Pueblo if I remember correctly,” Wilson said, arching an eyebrow. “Not as many as Denver by a long shot, but that would still be one hell of a horde.”

  Picking up speed, the trucks in front drove through the crumbling stucco archway and past the twisted and blackened gates of Fountain Valley Estates, and as the trudging dead disappeared in the rearview Wilson said a silent prayer. “What’s next on the map?” he asked, apprehension apparent in his voice. “Hopefully there aren’t any more residential areas.”

  “I’ll check—you get to keep your eyes on the road,” Brook said as she tried to figure out where they were on the laminated plastic map. Then as an afterthought she added sincerely, “Good driving back there Wilson.”

  Beaming on the inside from the accolades, Wilson took Brook’s advice and as the white aspens flashed by focused solely on the winding road.

  ***

  Civilians’ Billets - Schriever Air Force Base

  “Three, four, five,” Ted muttered under his breath.

  Ever since the immaculately dressed young airman had delivered the news of William’s sudden death, he had spent nearly every waking moment equally divided between mourning his partner and formulating his final exit plan.

  That he hadn’t been able to see Will’s body infuriated him. Pneumonia was the suspected cause of death he had been told. They were going to come find him so he could pay his respects... but. Why did there always have to be a but, Ted thought at the time. Oxygen fire, he had been told. The infirmary had burned hot with Will’s body still inside. Too tired from all of the running and killing and death of the last few days, he took them at their word. Done fighting anything and everything, he had slipped into a deep depression.

  Eleven, twelve, thirteen... that’s how they do it, he thought to himself as he tightened the knot. Then he glanced up at the two-by-fours and covered his ears. “This is getting old,” he shouted, barely able to hear his own raised voice. The tent shook slightly. The thin canvas ceiling did little to in
sulate the droning roar approaching from the east as yet another noisy airplane skimmed the base on approach to the nearby runway.

  He had dropped three obvious hints that he wanted to be left alone. Finally, after a blatant lie that involved Yoga and his impending nudity, Sasha and her constantly running mouth vacated his tent.

  Finally alone and able to think clearly, Ted mulled over his options, and in between bouts of uncontrollable crying and inconsolable rage he made up his mind.

  He penned a brief note which stated in no uncertain terms that he wanted to be left alone and affixed it to the outside of the front door. That should keep Sasha away, he thought to himself. Then he picked up the worthless tangle of keys. He had been kidding himself when he stuffed these in his pocket, he mused. The faithful old blue Subaru, with only nine payments left, sat wrecked in the middle of I-25 near Castle Rock. And as far as his condominium at the Viscount Arms which he owned free and clear—without William—he was never, ever going to return to that tomb.

  He removed the clear plastic photo fob from the wire key ring and discarded the rest on the adjacent bunk. Will’s face, though sunburned, radiated the happiness they had shared on their ‘honeymoon’ trip to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. He held the tiny faded picture in his palm and for the first time in more than a week felt something other than despair or loneliness touch his heart. That something was fleeting and ethereal—try as he might, no matter how hard he stared at the silver dollar-sized photo, he couldn’t replicate the emotion.

  You can’t do this Ted, he silently chastised himself. You’re a shrink, Ted... you know better Ted... his conscience went on. Trying to ignore the mental prattle, he scaled the folding chair and cinched one end of the rope to the tent’s ceiling supports with a strong double knot. With my rotten luck my fat ass is going to bring this whole place down on top of me, he thought morbidly while he looped the noose over his head. A sudden notion rippled through the curtain of grief shrouding his rational thought. What if there is no God and no Heaven? What if I never see Will again?

  With one foot hovering over the abyss, Ted steeled himself to follow through and hopefully have his questions answered.

  Knock knock.

  “Go away Sasha,” Ted said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

  Knock knock.

  Though she had tried to cheer him up during his two day self-imposed sequestration, even going so far as bringing him food, he had definitely had enough of her incessant advice-giving and chatter. For Christ’s sake, he had asked himself. Who was the shrink here?

  Knock knock.

  “I couldn’t give two shits about Bella and Edward,” Ted bellowed at the door. “Furthermore, I hope whoever invented those characters got eaten by those things out there.” He should have left it at that and stepped out of this fucked up dead world—instead he waited for Sasha’s snotty response.

  A muffled male voice said through the door, “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about sir. My name is Davis and I need to talk to you... May I come in?”

  As the metal creaked under his weight, inexplicably he heard Sasha’s voice invade his head. Do not invite him in. If a vampire doesn’t have your blessing then he can’t cross the threshold. Followed by William’s prophetic words resounding in his skull, If you do it this way they will find you bug eyed and blue with the contents of your bowels in a puddle under your swinging corpse. Then, You are fucking going crazy, Ted, his own voice informed him.

  “Arrrggghh!—Give me a minute... I’m not decent!” Ted shouted. He removed the noose, stowing it over the flimsy two-by-four rafters. Pussy, chickenshit, fucking failure—you can’t do anything right.

  Ted kicked the chair, sending it screeching along the plywood floor. It hit the canvas wall with a hollow thwop, collapsed in on itself and hit the floor flat with a metallic bang.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Everything alright in there?”

  Can’t a guy even fucking kill himself already? Ted tore the door open and snapped, “What do you want?”

  Standing at the threshold and looking up at Ted, Airman Davis methodically removed his camouflage patrol cap and waited a heartbeat to compose himself before he spoke.

  Dressed in a dirty sweat stained tee shirt and checked pajama bottoms, standing half a foot taller and packing at least a hundred more pounds than Davis’s five-foot-eight inch, one hundred sixty pound frame, the fully bearded man filling the doorway cast an intimidating first impression. The only thing that was missing, Davis thought, was a flannel shirt and a big blue ox. “Major Freda Nash sent me. She requests that you return with me to the security pod,” said Airman Davis, seeing the worry creep onto Ted’s face.

  Crinkling his brows, Ted thought to himself, Security pod... am I in trouble? Then he said menacingly, “And if I don’t?”

  “We won’t be taking you against your will if that’s what you’re thinking,” Davis replied, nodding his head slightly and looking Ted in the eyes where instantly he noticed a change in the big man. The look of total defiance suddenly morphed into concern. Then Davis continued, “This is a matter of national security—your expertise is needed.”

  Ted shifted his weight nervously between feet. His curiosity piqued, he replied, “Expertise—national security... let me guess—the President needs her own personal head shrinker.”

  “No sir... but someone you know does.”

  “Who?”

  Airman Davis stood his ground. “You will find out soon enough—you still coming?”

  “Let’s go,” Ted said brusquely as he covertly tucked the poignant picture of him and Will into his pocket.

  Chapter 27

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Jackson Hole, Wyoming

  Daymon left Lu Lu parked at the end of a little used fire road behind a large stand of trees where her abnormal green hue would be hidden from view. Then, bent at the waist, he cautiously padded the twenty or so yards to the rusty barbed wire fence. Spying his target, he sank to his knees, then flattened to his belly and settled in to wait.

  ***

  He had been laying stone still next to a gnarled fence post accompanied by only by the sound of brittle grass stalks rustling in the gentle afternoon breeze when he heard the familiar engine sound and then recognized the SUV as it came bouncing over the pasture, churning up divots of sod covered soil. It was the same vehicle that had passed him by earlier in the day in the valley—dark green, shiny, and new. The British made Range Rover looked as out of place in the middle of the elk refuge as did the small Asian man and his elderly white friend that Daymon had been monitoring for the past half hour. Daymon adjusted the focus ring. He was certain the fit looking, dark haired man who had stepped out of the vehicle was Ian Bishop, the man Gerald had told him about. Then the puzzle pieces locked in place. The old dude, as he had suspected, was in fact Robert Christian and the other man was an assistant or some sort of hired help. What he wouldn’t have given for a high powered sniper rifle at the moment. The shotgun and crossbow were in his rig—they would both be useless at this range. So now that he had faces to pin on the names, the odds of finding Heidi had just improved drastically.

  ***

  Bishop pulled his Range Rover up next to the boss’s shiny black Cadillac Escalade. He scanned the surroundings. Satisfied there were none of the vile creatures in the vicinity, he emerged from the SUV’s supple leather interior. The scene in front of him didn’t seem at all unusual from half a dozen yards, after all, his boss had been taking at least one meal a day in his valley since Ian and the men of Spartan International had taken total control of Jackson Hole just days after the outbreak. Bishop distinctly remembered his boss explaining to him then how the early settlers of Jackson Hole enjoyed supping in the open, ringed by the Tetons—therefore the practice of dining al fresco among cow turds somehow seemed romantic to President Robert Christian.

  The detail and preparation put into the lavish spread became more evident to Bishop as he walked forward.

/>   In the center of the folding mahogany table, bright as a solar flare in the afternoon sun, sat a triple tiered oval serving tray festooned with dainty sandwiches, pastries, and scones. Arranged like sentries around the two foot high lazy Susan was an elaborate multi-piece sterling silver tea set which was also polished to a high luster.

  You have got to be kidding me, Bishop thought to himself. Afternoon Tea in the fucking elk refuge. With a wan smile pasted on his face, he slung his M4 over a shoulder. Barely able to keep the thought of how absurd all of this was—with the walking dead amassing a few miles down the road—he bit his tongue and approached his boss.

  “Did you get rid of the firecracker?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Real fighter, that one, it’s a shame she didn’t like the asphyxiation game.”

  “Well... she’s no longer your problem.”

  “How goes the stand at the bridge,” Christian inquired indifferently.

  “For now it is what it is—a stand. Soon to be our last stand if we do nothing. And unlike the Sioux at Little Big Horn, these things are not going to be satisfied with only our scalps,” Bishop proffered.

  With a bite sized tuna sandwich poised near his lips, Christian looked up and said icily, “I didn’t ask for your History Channel interpretation Ian. I want facts.”

  “My men are very low on ammunition. We are losing more civilian conscripts each day... many of them just disappear into the woods when they’re supposed to be taking a piss. Three defected in broad daylight yesterday...”

  “Did you make examples out of them?”

  Bishop looked around as if someone who might pass judgment at a later date were eavesdropping on their conversation. “I strung them up early this morning. We’re not only running out of bullets... but we’re running out of crosses also.”