A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  “Ohhh,” said Wilson as he finally got the picture. “What does Cade do?”

  “Sore subject right now—drop it.”

  “Copy that...”

  Wilson stared ahead glumly.

  The two vehicles in the lead turned right onto the highway. Wilson scanned for walkers then arced the turn as well. He glanced in the side view, noting that the rest of the food laden trucks were falling in right behind.

  Looking over Wilson’s white knuckled grip Brook could see that the looming thunderheads had merged with the smoke and haze from the fire, creating a sullen pewter smudge stretching along the horizon as far as she could see.

  Good, she thought to herself. The storm’s going our way.

  Chapter 33

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Fountain Valley, Colorado

  Only a handful of zombies roamed the streets of Fountain Valley Estates when the thirteen vehicles started their thunder run through the gated community. As Gaines suspected would be the case, the dead had taken advantage of the wide open gates and struck out in search of fresh meat.

  In the Dakota truck Brook had remained tight lipped since leaving the warehouse district, answering Wilson’s never ending stream of questions with the occasional grunt or head nod. Then, as they neared the place where they had become trapped, Wilson noticed Brook start to squirm in her seat, hands opening and closing around the black rifle between her knees.

  “That one looks a lot like the White House,” Wilson said, trying to divert her attention from the opposite side of the street and the house with the dead girl still lying on the front porch. “See the columns... maybe it was the same architect.”

  “Good try kid. The architect of the White House has probably been dead for two hundred years.” Brook noticed the Gray Tudor instantly—it had been burned into her memory. She was sure she would be revisiting it in her nightmares for years to come. As the U-Haul drew perpendicular to the McMansion, Brook saw the fuzzy pink robe and one pink slipper cocked at an odd angle. Then she caught a brief flash of blood and blonde hair and white bone. She buried her face in her hands, smelling the gun oil on them. Tears sluiced between her fingers, down her thin wrists and onto the brown vinyl floor mats.

  “All clear,” Wilson said as soon as the charnel house was out of sight.

  Rubbing her eyes on her sleeve, Brook whispered, “That one was hard because she was still alive, human. She was someone’s little girl.”

  Wilson nodded. “That thing took a bite out of her. She was already doomed.” Then he remembered his neighbor’s little girl Sarah who had turned and was probably still thrashing around inside of apartment 905 in the Viscount Arms back in Denver. He hadn’t had it in him to finish her then, but if he had it to do over again he would brain the toddler in a heartbeat. At that moment his respect for the petite woman to his right shot up another notch.

  The fifty caliber guns remained silent until the convoy reached the I-25 interchange, where the throngs of burnt walkers streaming from the south boggled everyone’s mind. The way their skin washed away as the sheets of rain pummeled their naked bodies. The way their milk-colored eyes and ivory teeth stood out in sharp contrast to their coal black outer dermis.

  Brook shuddered at the sight of the crispy diaspora.

  “Shit... they’re stopping,” Wilson cried as brake lights flared and he narrowly avoided plowing into the Humvee he had been tailgating.

  “Gotta clear the road,” the general’s driver said over the comms. Then General Gaines’s voice came over the two-way radio as Brook watched the doors on both gun trucks hinge open. “Civilians must remain in their vehicle,” he barked. Then he softened his tone and added, “That includes you, Brooklyn Grayson.”

  Sinking in her seat, she looked at Wilson, then shifted her gaze to the front.

  “I knew you were trouble,” he stated matter-of-factly.

  They both watched as Gaines and his men fanned out across the road.

  Brook estimated there were at least fifty walkers between them and the off-ramp to I-25.

  A ripping high pitched whine reached her ears as one of the soldiers, armed with an M249 light machine gun, squeezed multiple short bursts of 5.56 bullets into the mass. Geysers of brain and charcoal coated skull rained down on the roadway as the soldier leaned forward, bracing against the recoil, and walked his fire head high across the front line of walkers; meanwhile, carbine pressed firmly to his shoulder, Gaines calmly advanced and worked his SCAR from left to right, felling a dozen walkers with near point-blank head shots. The encounter was over in a matter of minutes and Gaines and his men walked among the fallen Zs, delivering final death to the ones that still moved. The dismounts hurriedly cleared a path wide enough for the convoy, moving the corpses and body parts and stacking them up beside the road like some kind of blackened meat guardrail.

  ***

  The remainder of the return trip was uneventful. The storm shadowed the convoy all the way back to Schriever, washing most of the evidence of their skirmishes with the dead from the vehicles. Aside from the occasional ten minute afternoon thunderstorms that rolled over the Rockies before descending upon Colorado Springs two or three times a week, this storm was the first substantial sustained precipitation the eastern side of the range had seen since the Omega virus blazed through the valley two weeks prior.

  After the Zs at the gate were dealt with, the guards greeted the foraging convoy with smiling faces and cheers.

  Chapter 34

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Near Hoback Junction, Wyoming

  Ari flew the black helo just a few feet above the water through all ninety miles of the Flaming Gorge recreation area, changing altitude only to avoid clusters of boats and the occasional bridge or high tension wire. It was the type of flying that required him to not only have full faith in the aircraft, but also nerves of steel. The hardest part of that leg of the mission, he found, was trying to keep from gawking at the numerous scenes of carnage like those at the Flaming Gorge dam.

  Scrutinizing the next waypoint on the glass display, Durant said, “We’re coming up on Hoback Junction, so I inputted a new waypoint that will swing us around and to the right to avoid enemy contact.”

  “Copy that,” said Ari. “Everyone keep your eyes on the ground. If we come across any NA patrols they must be dealt with before they get on the radio and give us up.” He banked the helo hard right and, staying a few hundred yards away, followed the road for a quarter mile.

  Cade had been staring at a small creek running parallel to the road when three things happened at once: Outside the turbines shrieked above and behind his head and he could hear warnings chiming from the cockpit. Then he felt his body weight double as he was pushed hard against the bulkhead, and as Ari dove the helicopter to the deck he found his butt and feet levitating as he experienced a split second of weightlessness.

  An excited exchange of words passed between pilot and co-pilot. “Two rotor wing contacts, one thousand feet AGL, ten o’clock heading west by southwest,” Durant said rapid-fire.

  “Taking us to the deck,” Ari fired back, his voice nearly overlapping his co-pilot.

  “Are we going in?” Cade shouted over the comms as his stomach hit the floor when Ari leveled off.

  “No, just hiding in the woodpile,” Ari quipped.

  By the port side window Tice, face like he had seen a ghost, was staring at the branches dancing thirty feet away.

  Hicks shot Cade a look that seemingly said, ‘no big deal, all in a day’s work,’ then flashed a big shit eating grin. Obviously his idea of an E-Ticket ride, Cade thought to himself. While sitting against the opposite bulkhead, Lopez and Maddox looked to have weathered the abrupt maneuver in stride.

  “Did they make us?” Cade inquired.

  “They didn’t deviate,” Durant interjected. “Points to no in my book.”

  “We’ll give them a minute or two to create some distance between us,” Ari stated. “In the meantime, anyone know any show
tunes?”

  Tice cackled and Lopez shot him a death glare. Meanwhile Cade continued to stare at the creek much closer than he had anticipated.

  After hovering ten feet above the gurgling creek with boughs and leaves whipping from the turbulent rotor wash, the black Ghost Hawk arose slowly from the canopy, nosed down, and resumed the north by northeast heading.

  “Just like that, gentlemen,” Ari said with an air of cockiness. “And in broad daylight.” An obvious jab at Cade’s decision to nix the night infil. Thankfully another pre-marital spat ensued, taking the barb off of his mind.

  “Goddamn, before Ari pulled that evasive move I saw a shitload of Zs on the road,” Tice said.

  “Watch your mouth Spook,” Lopez said, glaring at Tice. “I don’t need to hear the blasphemy... pinche pendejo.”

  “Sorry Lopez,” Tice intoned. “Won’t happen again.” Yeah right.

  Smiling, Cade shook his head and swapped helmets, preparing for the infil.

  “Five mikes gentlemen,” Ari said over the onboard comms.

  After making sure all eyes were on him, Hicks held up an open hand to visually reaffirm Ari’s message.

  Cade checked his weapons for the umpteenth time. He made sure the SCAR rifle was strapped tightly to his chest and the Glock 17 snug in its holster on his thigh, locked and loaded. In his ruck were two fragmentation grenades and enough C4 plastic explosive to blow a Winnebago sized hole in the Grand Coulee Dam. For good measure he cinched his ballistic vest and MOLLE rig one notch short of tourniquet.

  As he watched the other three operators making last minute preparations, he began to second guess himself. Was he putting too much faith in the Night Stalkers and the capabilities of their Jedi Ride? Would four operators be able to destroy the NA’s ground defenses and pull off the snatch and grab? If they found their targets would he be able to resist the urge to put a bullet in Ian Bishop and Robert Christian at first sight?

  Gotta take the first step and hit the ground running, he told himself, trying to shake the nagging doubts he thought he had squashed before leaving Schriever.

  As the operators swapped their flight helmets for the low riding tactical helmets, Hicks began readying the fast ropes they would be using for the infiltration. He first checked the anchor points, then placed the thick plaited ropes coiled neatly near the doorway so they would be readily accessible. Once Ari had the bird in a hover over the insertion point, he would only need to throw the anchored ropes into the void and watch the commandos until they were safely on the ground.

  In a perfect world, once the helo was on station, the time spent over target from hover to boots on the ground should be less than thirty seconds—Hicks was anticipating fifteen.

  “Two minutes,” Hicks said holding up a peace sign as he slid the door open.

  Cade rolled with the bucking ride and watched the tall firs blur by. Their scent swirling around the cabin suddenly reminded him of Christmas, and made him long for the normalcy he had been enjoying in Portland before that Saturday in July.

  Ari banked the craft hard to port, popped it up over a small hillock, and then nosed back down where the black helo would remain hidden from prying eyes—human or electronic.

  He wasn’t too worried because they were on the south side of Jackson Hole. The entire valley to the north was a different story, because it was being defended with American made hardware. The Ghost Hawk employed Frequency Hopping for its communications and radar as well as radar absorbing skin and ducted exhaust, all of which contributed to its ability to emit virtually zero electromagnetic radiation while maintaining a very low heat signature. In short, the bird was virtually undetectable as long as he kept it out of the valley and out of range of the stolen American made surface-to-air missiles.

  Hicks extended a hand to Cade, helped him to his feet, and then checked his gear out. It was standard operating procedure. At the same time the other operators were doing the same for the man in front of him.

  “One minute,” Hicks bellowed.

  Counting down in his head from sixty, Cade said a prayer and slapped his gloved hands together to get the blood flowing. At ten the helo nosed up, coming to an abrupt halt, then hovered thirty feet from the drastically sloping ground.

  Ari held steady. The rotor blades had mere feet of clearance on each side. Through the cockpit Ari could see nothing but wildflowers and knee high grass bending in the rotor wash.

  Gripping the thirty foot rope with both hands, Cade waited for Hicks’ signal. Then once he received the go, he slid over the edge, the feeling of virtual free fall sending his stomach into his throat. Instantly his gloves went hot from friction and in two and a half seconds his boots hit the sloped hillside with a dull thud. Instantly he stepped aside to clear the landing spot and freed his rifle from the center point sling. He went to a knee, brought the SCAR up and had the tree line covered before Lopez hit the ground.

  One at a time the other two slid down and formed up.

  Hicks jettisoned the fast rope as the helo started to pull away from the hill. And by the time he closed the door, Ari had spun the Ghost in the other direction and they were off to the preplanned loiter spot.

  Like a well-oiled machine, Hicks thought to himself as he looked down at his Suunto—eighteen seconds. He grimaced as he unhooked the safety cable because he knew the Delta boys could do better, then he took his place behind the starboard mini-gun and strapped in.

  “Good job Hicks,” Ari said.

  “Over fifteen... not good enough sir.”

  “Look on the bright side—nobody was shooting at us.”

  “Roger that,” Hicks replied coolly.

  The cabin remained quiet as Ari slowed the helo and parked it in a hover inside a small clearing in the Bridger Teton National Forest, ten miles east of the insertion point.

  As soon as Durant received Cade’s all clear call he relayed the message, “Anvil Actual is good to go,” referring to the call sign Major Nash had assigned the Delta captain.

  Ari quickly forwarded a situation report to Schriever, then nosed the helo to the south as Durant searched the digital topo map for the butte they would be cooling their heels on while awaiting the Delta team’s exfil request.

  The abandoned logging camp where the SOAR aviators would be awaiting the exfil call had been located using old footage gleaned from an earlier flyover conducted by one of Major Nash’s KH-11 Keyhole spy satellites. Their loiter LZ (Landing Zone), situated on a medium sized butte roughly five miles southeast of downtown Jackson, was far enough away and low enough on the horizon to keep them underneath the enemy radar.

  With only one overgrown and nearly impassable road leading in and out, the Night Stalkers would be safe although a little bored.

  It was understood by Cade and the other three men and reiterated by Ari in no uncertain terms that the team would be leaving the valley either on foot or some other type of ground transportation if they failed to disable—or more preferably destroy—the Patriot surface-to-air missiles deployed in the elk refuge.

  Chapter 35

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Jackson Hole, Wyoming

  Snow King Resort, Downtown Jackson

  The team fanned out and took cover, each near the base of a mature fir tree; then, after a few minutes spent waiting and listening to make sure they hadn’t been compromised, they trudged up a field of loose scree, their destination three hundred yards above.

  Shadowing the team’s uphill progress, flitting from tree to tree and sounding like a rusty pump handle, a Steller’s Jay belted out a series of shrill calls.

  Cade held up a clenched fist.

  The other three men went still.

  Looking directly at Tice and Maddox, Cade pointed to his left with two fingers.

  The men nodded and moved in that direction, angling for the summit.

  Cade motioned for Lopez to follow, and then he moved forward in order to create more spacing in case someone was waiting for them at the top. The last thing he w
anted was for the mission to end on the side of the mountain, the entire team taken out by one hand grenade or a quick burst of machine gun fire.

  “Clear. We’re at the summit,” Maddox said into his throat mic.

  “Copy,” Cade answered as he went to ground and low-crawled until he and Lopez met up with Maddox and Tice behind a termite infested snag.

  Though the elevation was only 7,808 feet, the view from the top of Snow King Resort was breathtaking. The city of Jackson Hole started at the bottom of the ski runs where the massive hotel and convention facilities were, and rambled into the distance. Laid out in a grid pattern, the downtown core was dominated with bars, restaurants, art galleries, and T-shirt shops. The National Elk Refuge sprawled to the northeast and roughly ten miles beyond lay the Jackson Hole Airport. The Jackson Hole Mountain Resort was just twelve miles to the north and, in the middle of them all, rising to nearly fourteen thousand feet, the majestic Grand Tetons thrust skyward. Yellowstone with its geothermal pools and the Old Faithful geyser were a mere sixty miles to the east.

  ***

  Six Hours Later

  Cade was no stranger to the boredom and monotony a prolonged stretch of surveillance could bring on. He had spent days on end in the Stan and Iraq watching and waiting for an HVT (high value target) to show, only to paint the target with a laser and let someone else drop a two thousand pound JDAM (Joint Direct Attack Munition) or a couple of Hellfire missiles on their heads. This would be different; if they were lucky they would be rewarded with a HVT to take home with them.

  Aside from the random vehicles and the occasional helicopter buzzing north towards the airport, the one constant during the team’s six hour over watch had been the Humvee patrolling downtown Jackson Hole. Every twenty minutes, like clockwork, the flat black vehicle returned from the northwest, passed through downtown and then disappeared to the northeast.

  Cade checked his Suunto—one hour until full dark. He addressed his men who were separated by only a few feet. “We’ll lie dog a little while longer—we’ve got a sliver moon tonight,” he said, looking at the clear darkening sky. “Then just after dark we’ll work our way down and set up near those,” he said, pointing at the alpine toboggan. The blue concrete run, its straightaways bookended by steeply banked turns, ran from the top of the lift to the bottom of the mountain. Cade figured the suspended part of the run near one of the corners where it banked sharply would provide them with the perfect cover until the patrol made its lap, allowing them to move into the city.