Ted emitted a drawn out chuckle and then said, “Wouldn’t know it by looking at his broken nose.”
“About all I can offer is a sincere apology. I am deeply sorry for your loss Ted. You know in a roundabout way that monster in there killed an American hero—a general, who just saved us from the horde that you saw firsthand. Pug or Francis... whatever person he really is... he also killed the two scientists who were working to cure Omega. So you see... you’re not the only one who has lost someone.”
“Doesn’t bring William back,” Ted said as he stood up and pushed his chair back forcefully, suppressing the urge to throw it through the one-way glass. He glared at the two Air Force officers and rushed from the room, slamming the metal door behind him.
Nash stood and made a move to follow. “Let him go,” Shrill said. “That is an order.”
***
After the long lonely walk fraught with more than one wrong turn, Ted found himself back at the cave. Scaling the two wooden steps seemed like summiting K2. The wood slat door banged behind him with a resonance seemingly signaling an end—only there was no director standing in the wings waiting to yell, “That’s a wrap.” The decision was his to make and came easier than he would have ever imagined.
The happiest chapter in his life had ended violently—cut short by a little bug and a little madman—sadly both manmade. Ted didn’t have the energy to turn another page nor trudge through a fitting epilogue.
Right where he had left it when Airman Davis came a knocking, the folding chair beckoned. And no doubt Miss Nosy would also be knocking in due time. As if on autopilot he stepped up onto the chair and pulled the noose from its perch on the rafter. Standing on the chair left him very little head room and a smaller margin for error. He eyeballed the length of rope between the noose and the point where he had secured the other end, then guessed the distance of the chair seat to the floor. After a quick calculation he muttered to himself, “Six more inches.” Then he looped the noose end twice more around the two-by-four support beams. That oughta do it.
Ted gazed at the small photo he held in his hand and said in a low voice, “Here I come William.”
In order to drown out the rational head shrinker part of his brain chanting, Don’t do it, don’t do it, don’t do it, he began singing his favorite Rolling Stones tune, and with Sympathy For The Devil echoing from the canvas walls he stepped off into the unknown.
Chapter 29
Outbreak - Day 11
Utah/Wyoming Border
Flaming Gorge Recreation Area, Green River
The fuel-laden Ghost Hawk pushed along mere feet above the deck at a conservative one hundred knots.
Red rock cliffs, with green firs clutching their flanks with gnarled roots, rose from the desert floor.
Up ahead a snaking stripe of water blazed silver in the afternoon sun.
“Flaming Gorge Dam,” Ari said, indicating the cement monolith rising above the trickle of a river. Dark streaks painted the dam face from top to bottom where water continuously spilled through the overflow sluice gates.
Continuing the impromptu geography lesson he added, “That’s what is left of the Green River. The rest is contained behind that thing.”
Slowing the helicopter considerably, Ari popped them over the lip of the dam. “Durant... are you seeing what I’m seeing?” he spouted over the shared shipboard comms.
Simultaneously, every operator in the back of the chopper pressed a face against the nearest window to take in whatever sight had gotten the usually unflappable aviator so worked up.
Durant slowly and deliberately panned his head towards Ari, flashing him a look of disbelief from behind the impenetrable smoked glass visor. Ari had said some dumb things over the years but nothing came close to this, Durant thought to himself. He held his gaze steady and finally answered deadpan, “Seriously Ari. How could anyone miss that thing? It looks like Lake Havasu during Spring Break down there.”
“Minus the college co-eds of course,” Ari quipped, reining in airspeed and bringing the Ghost Hawk into a steady hover thirty feet above the blue-green wind whipped chop.
“Holy hell,” Tice blurted over the comms.
“I second that emotion,” Sergeant Lopez intoned as he performed a quick sign of the cross. “Only there ain’t nothing holy down there.”
Directly off the nose of the Ghost Hawk, in the center of the reservoir, floated no less than a hundred vessels clustered together. Open bowed runabouts, high performance ski boats, and aluminum party barges interspersed with multi-colored personal water craft rode the swells like an immense technicolor lily pad. Suddenly aware of their chance at salvation, several dozen people competed, all trying to win the chopper’s attention. Arms aflutter and gesticulating wildly, the sunburned survivors appeared giddy at the prospect of escaping the fate that most of them had undoubtedly resigned themselves to.
“With that many boats down there, shouldn’t we be seeing a lot more people?” Maddox asked.
Craning his head to get a better look Lopez added, “Where do you think the rest of them went?”
Tapping a finger on the window, Cade answered, “Most of them are on the beach on the port side.”
Hundreds of weathered zombies dotted the water’s edge. The largest concentration, a putrefying cluster of living dead, stood huddled on the algae mottled boat ramp nearest the fleet, patiently awaiting the next shore excursion of fresh meat.
Smaller packs of zombies staggered about the debris strewn campgrounds while others loitered near the general store/gas station—undead patrols in search of easier prey.
“Madre... it must have gotten too hot out there on the boats for some of them,” Lopez supposed, indicating the numerous grounded boats and the bodies, splayed out in death poses, scattered around them.
“Yeah buddy. What a motherfucker... having to choose from dying of exposure... or facing that shit on shore. But you know what?”
“No Tice... but I have a strong feeling you’re going to enlighten us,” Cade said to the CIA spook/nuke specialist who had proven to be more than worth his weight in gold during the recent Castle Rock mission.
“Those dead bodies... the ones that are truly dead and gone, the ones baking in the sun down there... they were the lucky ones. If I ever fuck up and get caught by a swarm... and one of you doesn’t off me...then I hope and pray to God those things eat enough of my ass so I can’t come back as one of them,” Tice said as he nervously adjusted his ballistic vest. The mere thought of being overcome by a swarm of zombies took him to a dark terrifying place he didn’t want to visit. He closed his eyes and thought of puppies and other gentle harmless creatures—anything but the voracious living dead.
East of the main flotilla, Jedi One-One overflew about two dozen sailboats. The vessels, arranged side by side roughly a hundred yards from shore, formed a small floating white island—but strangely there wasn’t a soul moving above deck on any of them.
Cade sensed the helicopter nose down and then begin a steady descent before Ari leveled off at about twenty-five feet above the water.
“God damn,” Hicks said, training the mini-gun on the undead mass below. He silently longed for permission to light the fuckers up, but knowing full well the ammunition had to be conserved he shelved the urge.
“God didn’t damn nothin,” said Tice, pointing through the port side window behind the co-pilot’s seat. “Lookie there... that’s the rest of them.”
Cade shook his head in disbelief. The series of sluices on the back side of the dam which could be opened or closed when excess rainwater runoff made it necessary was choked with hundreds of floating zombies. The monsters, most wearing life vests, beat the water to a white froth flailing their arms. “Fuckin’ great, now I’m going to have the same kind of nightmares as Ed from Deliverance... only minus the Dueling Banjos soundtrack,” Cade said. “And that, Lopez...” he added, pointing at the unsynchronized swimmers, “explains why the majority of the boats are empty.” Cade closed his
eyes, imagining how the flotilla formed: first a few boats congregated to escape the dead, then more followed their lead, unwittingly bringing their infected loved ones along for the ride. It was a sure recipe for disaster that quickly turned into a floating microcosm of the reality on land that the survivors had been trying to escape.
Ari broke in on the comms, “I thought Ed was the one who had to squeal like a pig.”
“No way,” Durant chimed in. “That was Bobby... he was squealin’.”
“Oooh, that’s right. Ed was about to have to give the toothless hillbilly a hummer,” intoned Ari. “That’d give me nightmares for sure.”
“Sorry I mentioned it,” Cade said as he opened his eyes and looked onto the reservoir, where he spotted one of the larger vessels which had apparently broken free from the main grouping. The vessel spun clockwise in a slow lazy circle.
Desperate faces turned upward as the nearly silent Ghost Hawk’s shadow eclipsed the twin hull, aluminum and fiberglass party barge which was out of control and drifting steadily towards the dam’s edge.
Loaded to the point of overflowing, the runabout had seen better days. The twenty or so survivors onboard huddled in a knot in the only respite from the unforgiving sun, a tiny patch of shade cast from the boat’s flapping canvas roof.
“No gas. No oars. No hope. They’re effed,” the usually quiet Maddox added out of the blue.
“Yeah... they’re hosed,” Tice said matter-of-factly as his camera whirred, snapping images to take back to Schriever.
“Do you have to?” Lopez said. “You making a new Many Faces of Death movie or something? You guys lost your humanity?”
A man of few words, Maddox merely shrugged his shoulders.
“Just following orders Lopez,” Tice spat. The CIA man had butted heads with a couple of the Delta operators since embarking on the mission to retrieve the stolen nukes. And Lopez’s constant banter and good natured ribbing was doing little to win him over. If anything it was driving a wedge between Tice and the remaining members of the close knit team.
Lopez uncrossed his arms and held his palms up. “I’m just saying... that those people are deep in the mierda down there. You don’t need to record it for our future generations. Besides Mr. Ansel Adams you are wasting your time... cause there probably won’t be anyone left to gawk at your pictures anyways.”
“There is a reason I’m attached with you D-Boys... and it’s got nothing to do with my photo composition. And it certainly is not in direct proportion to how much I like and admire you cocky assholes. In case you all forgot there are still a number of nukes unaccounted for—”
“Oh no, do not do that... sit back down,” Ari said over the comms, cutting Tice off. “That party barge, starboard side at two o’clock... she is going over. I estimate thirty bodies are going in.”
“Copy that,” Durant replied from the left seat. “Looks like most of them are wearing flotation devices.”
At the sight of their potential rescuers, every soul aboard the Happy Hour had stood at once. Then the entire throng foolishly rushed the port side of their floating sanctuary, eyes tracking the black helo, waving their arms in the air like they were in the Packer’s end zone encouraging a ‘Lambeau leap.’ The vessel suddenly listed as the added bodyweight overwhelmed the pontoon directly underneath; the barge submarined, rolling over in slow motion, pitching all aboard into the tugging current.
Every man aboard Jedi One-One watched the horror unfold as the barge capsized and the people were sucked under.
“C’mon Ari... let me go hot,” Hicks begged, finger on the mini-gun trigger. “They’ve got thirty seconds, tops, until they hit the Zs.”
Owl-like, Ari twisted his neck, acquiring eye contact with Cade. “What do you think Captain?”
“There’s not enough spacing to use the mini-gun without some collateral damage,” proffered Cade.
Down below, one by one, the survivors broke the surface, their mouths silent O’s sucking in air.
Cade quickly weighed his options as the Happy Hours passengers bobbed atop the water and drifted towards the water bound zombies. Shit, he thought. And then knowing full well that there wasn’t any way to kill all of the hungry Zs before the helpless men, women and children were delivered into their midst, Cade made the toughest call of his life. “Come back around and put her in a tight hover,” he bellowed as he moved to the sliding door and clicked the carabineer attached to the safety line onto his loadbearing gear. “I can’t turn my back on them and I will not sit here and watch them get eaten alive.” He quickly triaged the situation. He knew full well he didn’t have enough time to remove the MSR sniper rifle, assemble it and bring it to bear on the dead. His only other choice was the SCAR, which he knew was a highly capable battle rifle for close in combat. Shooting long distance from a stationary position with the SCAR was doable—shooting accurately from the hovering helicopter was another thing.
“Ari, take me closer.”
“Copy that.”
Immediately the Ghost Hawk yawed sideways and a blast of hot air entered the open door buffeting Cade’s face. Because of the engine whine and gusting wind, the inside of the helo had become a difficult place to communicate —even with the onboard comms.
“Perfect, Ari!” Cade yelled. He aimed towards the mass of Zs as the first of the floating survivors made contact. Bracketed in his cross hairs, a young boy’s face, all terror and silent screams, filled the optics. Calming his breathing and clearing his thoughts he prepared to enter the shooter’s zone. He had no time to calculate wind, elevation, or range—besides, doing so hastily in the hovering helo was almost a lost cause anyway. He was going to have to adjust fire after each miss. Cade knew that kind of thinking wasn’t positive but it was the reality of the situation. He caressed the trigger. The silenced rifle bucked slightly as the round left the muzzle. A geyser of white erupted a foot to the left of the towheaded kid’s orange life vest. Shit! Adjusting aim, he said, “Hicks, open fire on my command.”
“Roger that,” Hicks replied grimly.
Cade’s second shot found its mark. The zombie nearest the boy stopped reaching and slumped forward, still wedged firmly in the spillway grating. Cade shifted aim and in moments a half dozen creatures on either side of the boy were stilled by his steady controlled shooting.
The young boy clambered from the bloody water, sprawling atop the wide walkway, his orange life vest rising and falling with each labored breath.
“Ok... I take it I’m shooting the Zs?” Hicks shouted.
“Mercy kill only if a civilian is being attacked,” Cade ordered. Then he added—mainly for Hick’s benefit—“You’d be doing them a favor... because they’re as good as dead anyway.”
Cade quick changed magazines and continued dinging the Zs, his accurate head shots widening the safe area.
“Eleven o’clock!” Durant called out over the onboard comms.
Half a dozen floaters who had been swept wide and to the left found themselves in harm’s way. The living fought valiantly as they made contact with the dead, pushing off and stiff arming the monsters to avoid being bitten. But the current and their heavy clothing were too much to overcome.
Cade saw the writing on the wall when the water frothed red from the feeding frenzy. Though women and kids were among the dozen or so who were in the dead’s clutches, he was left with no choice. “Do it, Hicks.”
The starboard side mini-gun erupted with an ominous tearing sound as Hicks walked his fire through the roiling crimson chum.
Body parts floated to the surface and the water went still.
Cade briefly clamped his eyes shut and uttered a prayer for the fellow Americans he had just ordered euthanized.
More than half of the people thrown into the water followed the young boy’s lead and crawled over the buoyant dead to safety.
The dead on shore, drawn by the black helicopter, copious amounts of gunfire, and the visceral screams of the dying, streamed to the cyclone fencing which had be
en placed there to keep people from accessing the narrow catwalk atop the dam.
All that for nothing, Cade said to himself, knowing the fence wouldn’t stand for long.
Seeing the same thing, Ari replied casually, “Don’t relax yet people... you’re going to have some more running to do. Hell Durant, that fence might as well be made of wax paper... I give ‘em five... maybe ten minutes tops.”
The apocalypse continued to amaze even Cade, always presenting newer and nastier visions for his subconscious to hold onto while he was awake, only to replay in nightmare form at a later date. He had already seen enough of the floating dead for a lifetime’s worth of nocturnal horror features so he made the appropriate call. “Nothing more we can do for them. Ari, get us out of here,” he said, impatience evident in his voice.
“Wyatt... haven’t you heard the saying, revenge is a dish best served cold?” Ari countered, evidently implying they had plenty of time to get to Jackson Hole.
“That phrase has crossed my lips on more than one occasion Ari. But we are burning daylight... and JP-8. Let’s get a move on, and that’s an order.”
“Copy that... point taken,” Ari replied as he looked back into the cabin and nodded respectfully to the newly promoted captain.
Issuing orders still felt a little unnatural, and truth be told Cade had a strong suspicion leading this team on the mission to the NA capital in Jackson Hole wasn’t going to be easy. With Mike Desantos’ passing and General Ronnie Gaines opting to stay behind at Fort Carson to oversee the ongoing Z eradication and the daunting ongoing task of resupplying Schriever, the young captain found himself thrust into the leadership role. That this wasn’t a ragtag band of apocalyptic survivors was a big relief. Been there, done that, Cade thought solemnly; these guys were seasoned Tier One operators. He had led a team of combat veterans before, both in Iraq and Afghanistan, and he had no doubt that it would all come rushing back to him the moment his boots hit the ground.
A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 21
