A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  He brushed a termite from the Bushnells and continued glassing downtown and the valley beyond.

  ***

  Silver Dollar Cowboy Bar, Jackson Hole

  The mechanical bull was going full tilt, bucking in herky-jerky rhythms, as the rider’s boots started to exit the stirrups.

  Daymon knew without a doubt that the man was about to make an unintended dismount. Three, two, one... he counted down in his mind and when the count hit one the wiry kid with the blond crew cut was launched from the undulating fiberglass toro and with a hollow slap hit the considerable amount of padding covering the wooden floor.

  Unable to control himself, Daymon laughed and peered over the wooden rail at the thrown rider.

  The younger man stood slowly and grimaced in pain as he dusted himself off. He looked at Daymon, who was still laughing uncontrollably, and hissed, “What the fuck are you laughing at... nigger?”

  At this point in a Western movie all of the boisterous talk and chatter would stop and the bar would suddenly go quiet; so great would be the vacuum of sound that you could hear a pin drop. This wasn’t the case here. Daymon had to yell to get his point across. “A sad fucking excuse for a bull rider, that’s what I’m laughing at!”

  Crew Cut came out of the pit, and without taking his eyes off of Daymon defiantly got into his face.

  “You sure you don’t want to change your story, nigger?”

  Daymon brought one leg around so that he was sitting sidesaddle on the bar stool facing Crew Cut, then he raised both hands from the bar, palms out in mock surrender.

  Thinking he had bested the man with caustic words alone, Crew Cut smirked, hitched his thumbs into his front pants pockets and seemed to relax.

  Trapping his dreads behind his head with both hands, Daymon tensed his abs then delivered a wicked head-butt to the bigot’s face.

  Without so much as a whimper Crew Cut dropped to the hardwood floor as blood poured from his destroyed nose; he lay motionless save for the occasional autonomous twitch.

  Daymon massaged his forehead, checking it for blood. Nothing.

  The bull resumed its steady kachunk-kachunk with a new rider in the stirrups as Daymon scanned the bar. Two men, both well north of six feet, played a game of pool on the other side of the bull pit. A handful of inebriated men dressed in all black slouched in a horseshoe-shaped booth swathed in sparkling red vinyl that looked like a transplant from Harrah’s in Vegas. Since nobody seemed to be missing Crew Cut, Daymon reclaimed his space at the bar and waved to Gerald. When he at last made eye contact with the grizzled proprietor he raised the empty tumbler.

  Oblivious to the one-sided melee that had just taken place, the bar owner shuffled over and poured the dreadlocked man another healthy dose of Knob Creek.

  “What’s the liquid courage for... you ain’t thinking about tangling with the man are you?”

  Daymon lifted the bourbon to his lips and met the barman’s gaze. “You trying to talk me out of it?”

  “No son... I’m concerned is all,” Gerald said. He looked to see if anyone was interested in their conversation, then in a low voice added, “Rumors of people desertin’. Not just townies... hell, most of them are dead—been killed in the first outbreak or by the brothers after. I’ve also noticed fewer patrols around here lately.”

  “What about the helicopters that have been buzzing around all day?”

  “Like I was saying... they are mobilizing. I think there ain’t a soul in the NA that wants to go toe to toe with the dead or the U.S. army.”

  “And their crazy leader?” Daymon said under his breath.

  Before Gerald could answer a fist fight broke out near the bull.

  “Knock it off. Save that shit for the dead... or take it outside,” Gerald growled.

  Daymon slid off the bar stool and stepped over the man whose nose he had just broken, making sure to get one more lick in with his boot. Then he gestured towards the floor with his thumb and said with a smile, “Gerald... looks like someone’s had one too many over here.”

  Gerald stopped mid pour, put a hand to his ear and said, “Huh?”

  With a nonchalant wave that meant ‘never mind’ Daymon made for the door while keeping one eye over his shoulder in case Crew Cut happened to have some friends in the bar.

  Once outside he took in a lungful of fresh air, and being mindful of his healing wounds, stretched his entire body like a cat just waking from a nap. Feeling the wind nudge his back he commenced the four block walk back to the firehouse. Along the way he kicked over in his mind whether he would follow through with his plan and get some Charles Bronson ‘Death Wish’ type of payback or whether he should just get in Lu Lu and drive over the Teton pass then continue past Driggs and onto Eden without stopping. More and more Eden was looking like the most attractive option of the two.

  Over his right shoulder the sun was starting to glide behind the Teton Range, its reflection glowing orange in the massive mirrored windows fronting the main entrance to the deserted Snow King Resort. His eyes were drawn to the ground by the motion of his own dreadlocks bobbing at the end of his lengthening shadow. Shit... Duncan was right—it kinda does look like a spider. Even though he and the smartass comedian fly boy had gotten off on the wrong foot, he had to admit he kinda missed the old dude’s gallows sense of humor. And more than that, he missed the unsolicited fatherly advice the man was prone to giving.

  Chapter 36

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Jackson Hole, Wyoming

  8:25 p.m.

  Hearing the familiar sounding engine, Cade pressed the Bushnells to his face waiting for the patrol to come back around. As soon as the vehicle nosed around the corner he checked his watch and noted the time. The Humvee kept a slow steady pace as it moved southeast along the main drag, passing the town square and the raised beds of wildflowers and the archways made of stacked elk antlers before turning northeast.

  Cade made another mental note. Still spot on timewise every twenty to twenty-five minutes. He could see that the passenger in the Hummer was armed with either an M-16 or an M4. The driver, he supposed, had a similar weapon and both occupants probably had some kind of sidearm. He shifted behind the log to get a better view on the retreating vehicle and watched until it disappeared from sight, then made yet another mental note of the time.

  Shadows stretched long as the sun began to slip behind the Teton Range.

  “One target at ten o’clock—moving our way,” Maddox stated.

  “I wonder why there aren’t more people outside,” Lopez said. “You would think with none of the demonios walking around they would be dancing in the streets... I know I would.”

  “That’s because there aren’t very many people left anywhere... period,” Cade said as he swept the binoculars across the valley and settled them on the lone pedestrian. The lanky man appeared to be bobbing his head as he walked. For some reason Cade found his movements very familiar but couldn’t put a finger to it, and because of the backlight he couldn’t get a good look at the man’s face.

  The sun flared brilliantly as it dipped below the mountain, instantly cloaking the downtown area in shadow. Then as the man stopped in front of a two-story brick building, Cade realized who he was watching. And judging from the looks of the huge double overhead doors the building Daymon was about to enter had to be Jackson Hole’s only firehouse.

  “Change of plans men,” Cade announced.

  Snake River Crossing I-189

  Sunset - 8:38 p.m.

  Daly clenched his teeth then reluctantly caressed the trigger. The mule kick recoil of the Barrett .50 caliber sniper rifle rocked his tender shoulder, sending a supernova of pain racing up his stiffening neck muscles. With a detached coldness he watched the zombie’s head explode in a halo of flesh and bone, then tracked the sniper rifle left a few degrees placing the crosshairs on the next lurching creature. A slow steady finger pull later he witnessed the frail creature, sans head, pirouette sideways over the smooth guardrail, free-fall li
mply and land atop the hundreds of other bodies piled up underneath the bridge on the far river bank.

  Futile, he thought to himself as he turned and slid down with his back against the bus, the cool steel feeling good against his sunburned shoulders. The creatures were now pulsing through the bus barrier across the bridge. He patted his thigh pocket—a ritual he had performed countless times since dawn; feeling the rigid shape of the detonator momentarily put him at ease. He massaged the stubble on his face then banged his head against the bus, a steady resounding death knell. He had been at the bridge sending former human beings to the afterlife for more hours than he cared to count.

  At dawn before his shift had started he had hunkered down in the very same spot he was now and watched the sunrise, hoping and praying that it wouldn’t be his last. And as the black night sky softened to a dark shade of blue and the sun finally edged over the Gros Ventre, he’d had a frightening epiphany—or a psychotic moment. What if I’m really dead and this is hell, he had asked himself as he sat listening to the rasping wails of the dead behind him. He closed his eyes and took inventory of his various aches and pains. The throbbing in his feet and knees from standing hour after tedious hour on the swaying scaffolding served to remind him he was still alive. The ache in his right shoulder screamed in no uncertain terms that he was fucking still alive. No part of his body was off limits from the spirit-robbing pain, and at the moment he wanted nothing more than to find a bed and fall asleep.

  Earlier in the afternoon before Bishop left him in charge he had said, “I’m going to get some sleep. If Holt doesn’t drop you a load of ammunition or if you think you are close to running out, call me ASAP. If nothing changes call me anyway at midnight.” Daly silently cursed his boss for the mere luxury of a few winks. After all, he hadn’t slept for days and it was taking a toll on his mind and body. He also knew that without a bottle of whisky sleep wasn’t going to happen. The whisky alone might take the edge off the pain but it wouldn’t chase away the demons so he could sleep. If only I had some real medicine, he thought to himself. The NA was so poorly equipped he couldn’t even get a few ibuprofen let alone a Valium or an Ambien. So fuck you sleeping beauty Bishop. Fuck you Robert Christian—Mister President in title only. Fuck the NA, and fuck the dead, he thought. Daly wanted it all to stop and had been fantasizing about desertion these last few hours—even going so far as planning where he would go and what guns and supplies he would take.

  Not today though, he told himself—besides, going solo out there would be as good as signing his own death warrant. Figuring he had allowed the Barrett sniper rifle enough time to cool down, he finished his bottle of water, crinkled the empty, and tossed it on the pile with the others. He opened the olive drab .50 caliber ammo can. Looking inside he counted at most thirty rounds rattling around in the bottom. He pulled out ten and slowly clicked each massive bullet into the box magazine.

  He was just inserting the magazine when he noticed the gunfire along the line increase in tempo then rise to a crescendo.

  Not looking forward to the encore ass whipping his shoulder was about to receive, he stood and prepared to once again engage the enemy.

  “Oh shit,” Daly blurted. The bus barrier had been fully compromised and the bridge crossing the Snake River now swelled with moving bodies. Where before there had been a manageable amount of walking dead, now there seemed to be a never ending torrent.

  Daly hefted the long gun and watched in abject terror as more creatures began to surge across the bridge. There were definitely more Zs than the amount of bullets possessed by the entire picket line of defenders. “Retreat... fall back now!” he screamed.

  The noise of gunfire and moaning dead caused his words to fall on deaf ears.

  He put the rifle to his shoulder. I’m not taking this paperweight with me, he thought, might as well empty it. Sighting the rifle on the zombies in the middle of the four lane span, he squeezed off all ten rounds rapid-fire; then he set the smoking Barrett aside as the first wave of decaying flesh slammed against the busses with a resounding crash. Their bodies quickly piled up, an eye watering mindless crush falling over each other, fingernails scratching steel and glass, reaching blindly for the meat they couldn’t see yet their instinct told them was near.

  With gunshotlike reports, the tires on the bus to Daly’s immediate left exploded followed closely by the crackling of imploding windows. All along the barrier metal groaned and more windows shattered. A drawn out screech emanated from the steel undercarriage as the surging mass drove the low slung bus sideways. Snarling faces leered and pale arms probed the widening gaps.

  To his right where the busses abutted the strip mall, men fell from the scaffolding screaming as the dead overran their positions. He looked left, noticing that the dead had broken through on that flank as well.

  Time to drop the bridge, he thought to himself as he pulled the detonator from his cargo pocket and fumbled with the cap covering the firing toggle. Suddenly the scaffolding under his feet shimmied then tipped backwards. Worried that he was about to be crushed under several hundred pounds of falling pipe and lumber, he vaulted over the edge. The twelve foot free-fall went smoothly—his landing did not. Upon impacting the unforgiving blacktop his right foot hinged over at an unkind angle and the plastic detonator flew from his grasp and skittered across the roadway. Acutely aware of the prayers and pleas of the men who were dying all around him, he rolled to his stomach and clawed his way towards the detonator. If he was going to die today, he thought to himself, the least he could do was take two hundred tons of concrete and rebar and several thousand zombies into the Snake River with him.

  Screech!

  The undead mob moved the multi-ton city bus backwards another three feet.

  Daly’s body flushed cold as the zombies surged through the breach less than ten feet away. “Fuck, fuck, fuck...” he cried as the first one through the gap locked eyes with him.

  A hoarse rasp escaped the creature’s maw as it glared at him through milky, wanting eyes. It advanced on him dragging one mangled leg, its shattered arms swinging wildly. The glistening bones piercing its putrid flesh made the thing look like it had lost a fight with a speeding train.

  “Looks like it doesn’t pay to be at the front of the line,” Daly said with a sneer as he shot the battered and broken corpse in the face.

  Somewhere in the distance a revving engine resounded over the din of the dead.

  Daly turned towards the sound and yelled and waved, frantically trying to get the driver’s attention. His heart sank and with it all hope of escaping alive as he witnessed the out of control Durango careen into a light standard, spin sideways and roll multiple times, ejecting the driver in the process.

  “Looks like it’s every man for his fucking self,” Daly said disgustedly as the realization that he had in fact seen his last sunrise hit him full on. He sat up in the middle of 189 and watched as the creatures poured between the fissure nearest him. He leveled his Glock at the horde and squeezed off a dozen shots. Pale arms reached for him vinelike, and as a cold hand latched onto his shattered ankle he put the pistol under his chin and pulled the trigger.

  ***

  The House - 8:45 p.m.

  Gazing at his Tetons, Robert Christian’s face reflected the sun’s fiery orange glow. The wispy saffron clouds rode the twilight sky like zeppelins from one of the Beatle’s acid-influenced films.

  “Tran... bring more champagne and some of your fabulous toast points and a tin of beluga caviar.”

  On the bird’s eye maple stand beside the California King bed, his Iridium phone began to bleat.

  Christian corralled the phone answering with a curt, “Yes.” He nodded his head in silence. Then he arose from the bed, strode thirty feet across the room, opened the French doors, and took the rest of the call on the expansive outside veranda. As he listened to the voice on the other end he nudged the broken teak chaise lounge with his toe. Finally he spoke into the phone, “Good job sir. When your work is do
ne there I need you to return home. I have a certain someone who is getting a little too big for their britches. That someone needs to be dealt with.” He went silent and listened for a moment before replying, “Yes, him. And I want you to terminate with extreme prejudice.” Then after ending the call Robert Christian screamed, “Who smashed my furniture?”

  Down the hall Clifford perked up. Eyes wide he contemplated spilling the beans. Then, deciding that he did not want to be involved, he swung the door to the security center shut leaving behind a trio of orange fingerprints.

  Tran knocked politely before entering with the two bottles of Veuve Clicquot champagne and a sizable tray of finger food—toast points and caviar included.

  “Set it there,” Christian grunted.

  Tran bowed and exited without saying a word.

  Christian took one of the bottles to the veranda and with a POP sent the cork flying into the swimming pool. Then wrinkling his nose in disgust at the noisy generator he went back to the master bedroom, shutting the French doors behind him.

  He looked at the empty bed and thought about having Bishop find him another girl. Then his gaze shifted to the two full bottles of bubbly and decided his libido could wait.

  Chapter 37

  Outbreak - Day 11

  Schriever AFB

  Colorado Springs, Colorado