A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Some of the Zs arose from their roadway feast and in their usual arm swinging, head bobbing manner began to stagger in his direction, and in seconds the rest of the monsters, thousands he guessed, became interested and gave slow motion chase.

  He gave up on Daly and called the Brothers one last time, thumbed the speaker on and shook his head disgustedly, waiting, hoping someone would answer. As the phone droned on Bishop came to the conclusion that the Brothers were either in trouble or had decided to cut and run. His sway over his two lieutenants lately had been stronger than ever—or so he thought. That they weren’t answering his calls troubled him on many different levels.

  He stared at the advancing horde and let loose a long string of expletives learned in the Navy.

  He threw the annoying Sat phone onto the seat next to him and, seeing red, tromped the accelerator, steering the Rover into the nearest walker. The SUV clipped the female zombie on the hip sending her airborne, and like a lawn dart the pale creature plowed headfirst into the blacktop spraying brain matter on the yellow centerline.

  “Take that bitch,” Bishop said as a morbid smile creased his face. He wrenched the wheel over, performing a one-eighty and pointed the Rover towards Jackson.

  Once the dead were behind him and out of sight he snatched up the Iridium and dialed another number from memory, and after two rings one of the pilots on standby picked up. “This is Bishop,” he barked. “Pre-flight the Gulf.”

  “Why the Gulf? The Heavy gives us more range,” the tired sounding voice on the other end replied.

  “The Heavy severely limits our choice of airstrips. Most of the municipal airports are either overrun or the runways were blocked early on to keep the aircraft carrying infected from landing.”

  “Copy that,” the pilot intoned. “The G6 will be ready when you arrive.”

  “One last thing... I need you to write these down and pass them on to all of the helo pilots.” He pulled over, fished a scrap of paper from his pocket, and recited a string of GPS coordinates. “I want all of the operable birds fueled up and moved to that location.”

  Bishop powered down the sat phone and set his jaw as he passed East Butte Road, which he would have taken to get to the House had he still given a shit about his former boss. You’re on your own now R.C., he thought as he rushed north on the Wyoming Centennial Scenic Byway on his way to the Jackson Hole Airport.

  ***

  12:34 a.m.

  Daymon awoke with a start only to find Cade shaking his arm. That there wasn’t a gun trained on him brought great relief. Maddox and Lopez had gone and returned and both appeared to be in one piece. And from where he lay sprawled on the sectional, he could see the candle nubs sitting in pools of melted wax, their flickering light still playing off of the kitchen walls.

  “What time is it?” he asked blearily.

  “Almost time to go,” Cade answered cryptically.

  While Daymon collected his things and stowed them in the back of Lu Lu, the operators used the down time to strategize, then spent the next thirty minutes paring down their loadout. The rucks stayed behind along with most of the C4. Maddox packed a few ounces in a cargo pocket just in case his lock gun failed him. They each took a silenced SCAR carbine as well as their personal sidearm—silenced also.

  Daymon scaled the stairs, poked his head into the living room and said, “Your chariot waits.”

  Cade tried to restrain himself but failed miserably. “Gentlemen... let’s get this goat rope on the road.”

  Chuckling to himself Lopez said, “Where have I heard that before?”

  “We all learned from the best and I would like to think Cowboy is here with us in spirit.”

  Pointing towards the ceiling Lopez said, “I’m going to get some for you tonight Vaquero.”

  Daymon made a face and said, “Who is this Cowboy guy?”

  “He was a snake eater of the old school variety... but he got bit on our last mission.”

  Cade’s eyebrows raised an inch as he shot Lopez the look and said, “We don’t need to revisit that here and now.”

  Mad at himself because of the slip, Lopez moved to the window. Seconds later the patrol Hummer reappeared down on Cache Street.

  “There is our window. Lock and Load fellas,” Cade said as he slid down the fire pole.

  ***

  The House - 12:55 a.m.

  Paul powered down the window and squared his face toward the black plastic dome housing the security camera so the guard could positively identify him.

  “Hi Paul,” Cliff said over the intercom.

  Paul nodded. “It’s really me Cliff,” he said with a trace of sarcasm.

  The gate opened inward allowing the black SUV entry to the compound. The Escalade’s tires rumbled on the cobblestone drive which arced in front of the grand mansion. Lucas leapt from the Cadillac the moment it came to a stop, dashed through the unlocked double doors and scaled the stairs, his combat boots drumming the marble.

  When he reached the second level landing he went straight to the security room.

  “Cliff...” he said, shoving the door open.

  The disheveled man pushed his chair away from the desk preparing to stand.

  Lucas put a big hand on the guard’s shoulder. “Where is Robert Christian?”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  Arching an eyebrow Lucas said, “Passed out?”

  “More than likely,” Cliff replied, reaching for a Cheeto.

  “Did he raise a fuss about us being gone for so long?”

  “No, but Bishop was pissed,” Cliff added.

  “Where is Ian?”

  After a moment of silence Cliff wriggled nervously in his seat, took another second to adjust his ball cap and said, “I think he went to check on the guys at the barrier. That was a few hours ago though.”

  “Gimme that,” Lucas said, motioning for the guard’s sat phone.

  He dialed Daly’s number and looked to the ceiling as he waited for an answer. “Paul,” he yelled downstairs. “Take the truck and check on Daly... he’s not picking up.”

  Jumping at the chance to prove himself, Paul sprinted up the grand staircase and made his way to the security room; after making eye contact with Lucas he blurted enthusiastically, “I got this.” Then he bounded down the marble treads three at a time, took a Mossberg from the coat closet, and rushed out the front door. Stopping for a beat on the circular drive he checked to make sure the short barreled shotgun was loaded then rounded the front of the black SUV and slid inside.

  The luxury Escalade was nothing like the rattletrap Chevy Stepside he drove daily before the outbreak. The polished wood dash and plush leather coupled with the rig’s smooth handling and soft springs gave him a deceptive sense of invulnerability. He really wanted to fiddle with the navigation computer, but seeing as how, for him, setting an alarm clock was a challenge, he opted not to touch. He slowly navigated the serpentine drive to the bottom of Butte Road, took a right, and bypassed the Teton Pass highway, continuing south on 189 towards the Snake River crossing seven miles ahead.

  Amazed at the horsepower the truck held in reserve yet skeptical of the Cadillac’s speedometer which indicated a top speed of one hundred and sixty, Paul had to see for himself. At least to a hundred, he thought as he pinned the accelerator to the floorboard. He had the SUV barreling down the tree-lined straightaway at well over ninety miles an hour when the headlights illuminated the first wave of walkers. He jammed on the brakes, praying they were as capable as the engine. The unloading g-forces instantly pushed him against the seatbelt as the rig slewed sideways, leaving two thick stripes of smoking rubber straddling the yellow center line. Then, still moving at more than fifty miles an hour, the fifty-eight- hundred pound Cadillac plowed through the moving wall of flesh and bone.

  Simultaneously, all eight airbags deployed and every window on the passenger side erupted in a maelstrom of razor-sharp glass pebbles. As the vehicle lurched to a halt rocking on its suspension, the first moans of
the dead reached his ears. Their stench quickly invaded his lungs and in seconds the creatures were pushing against the pliant side curtain airbags, thrusting their upper bodies into every available opening, trying to get at the meat.

  He flicked open his pocketknife and lanced the airbag pressing against his face. As the bag deflated to reveal the view through the windshield, a chill cut him to the bone. Pale faces and reaching limbs, rendered ghostlike in the headlight beams, were all he could see.

  Avoiding the clawlike fingers he threw himself to the floorboard, grasped the nylon sling, and drew the Mossberg to him.

  The first living corpse through the passenger window wore the all black uniform of an NA soldier. Paul pressed his back to the driver door, thrust the barrel to the monster’s chin, and squeezed the trigger. So much for the interior, he mused as he watched the Z’s face melt away behind the hail of lead shot. His ears rang from the concussive blast.

  Four left.

  Moans sounded from the back of the SUV as the monsters wriggled their way through the rear quarter window.

  The odds aren’t looking good Paul, a little voice whispered. Better save one for yourself.

  He popped up, aimed the shotgun over the seatback, and pumped two rounds into the encroaching undead duo.

  “Take that fuckers.”

  Two left. Save one for a rainy day, the voice nagged.

  He stilled one more snarling ghoul at point blank range then turned the smoking gun on himself.

  Fucked up angle Paul.

  He struggled to pull the trigger.

  Do it, the voice chided.

  The driver window spider webbed and a pair of gnarled hands thrust through, wrapping his neck in a frigid embrace. The Mossberg slipped from his fingers, and as he instinctively reached up more hands gripped him and effortlessly yanked his body through the window into eternal darkness.

  Chapter 42

  Outbreak - Day 12

  Jackson Hole, Wyoming

  Daymon hated how Lu Lu handled fully loaded down. Stopping on a dime wasn’t going to happen and every anomaly in the road threatened to bottom out the neon green Scout. Hell, she usually handled like a moving van with only his buck-eighty aboard—filled to capacity with the four army men and all of their gear—what did he expect.

  Cade rode in the passenger seat with Maddox behind him. In the center of the back seat, Lopez, the smallest of the team, got stuck riding “bitch” as Tice happily pointed out.

  “Harder for the demonios to reach me here,” Lopez said smugly.

  Changing the narrative Cade said, “We should scoot by the patrol with plenty of time to spare.”

  “Maybe if someone feeds the squirrels,” Tice quipped.

  “Listen... she’s due for a tune-up and brakes and... fuck it.” Daymon glanced at Tice in the rearview. “I could go back to the firehouse and you all can ride to the mansion... two to a bike.”

  “Let’s keep it professional men,” Cade said brusquely.

  Tice grumbled something from the back seat.

  “Curious... what does the E on your door mean?” Cade asked.

  “Stands for Essential and as the only firefighter to return to work after the rotten fuckers started walking... I’ve been elevated by default to Essential status.”

  “Copy that,” Cade intoned as he gazed at the darkened storefronts.

  “How far is the mansion?” Maddox inquired.

  “Five minutes,” Daymon answered. “The turnoff is just this side of 22 which goes through the Teton Pass. My house is on the other side in Driggs.”

  Cade popped the cover from the dome light and removed the bulb which he put in the empty ashtray. “Kill the headlights before you get to the turn off.”

  “There’s lots of tree cover and it will be dark as hell. I might not be able to get us to the House without driving off the road. Please tell me you’ve got another pair of those goggles.”

  “No need. We’re going in quiet... on foot,” Cade said.

  “What about me?” Daymon asked as he stopped Lu Lu at the end of Cache. Then out of habit he looked both ways and wheeled her left passed the Silver Dollar Cowboy bar—stole a long last look—and then accelerated down West Broadway.

  Chapter 43

  Outbreak - Day 12

  Butte Road

  Jackson Hole, Wyoming

  Mansion Guest House - 1:30 a.m.

  “What is taking that kid so long?” Lucas wondered aloud.

  “He’s been bugging me to drive thath beast since we got it from sha dealer,” Liam slurred.

  “You better take it easy on the scotch Liam.”

  “Why... we’re all gonna die shoon anyway,” Liam said. Then, ignoring his hypocrite brother’s advice, he tilted the Dewars bottle in the air and took a long pull.

  “Not in my plans bro. I’m leaving in the morning with or without you. Mom is not around to give me shit for not babying your ass.”

  Glaring at his brother, Liam struggled to rise from the leather pub chair and dropped the half full Dewars bottle on the cream colored carpet. Instantly a medicinal smell filled the air as the scotch glugged out, leaving behind a wet amber stain.

  “Don’t get up Liam... get some sleep why don’tcha,” Lucas shook his head sadly. “I’m going to the mansion and check on R.C. and then walk the grounds for a second.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Suit myself. That’s exactly what is going to happen at dawn. Lucas mused. And if you want to come along then you better sober up and get your shit together.

  Chapter 44

  Outbreak - Day 12

  Jackson Hole, Wyoming

  Approaching Butte Road and I-189 Interchange - 1:35 a.m.

  The old Scout’s headlights fought a losing battle against the dark. Overhanging trees and a waning moon made sure the fight was anything but fair.

  “This gutless wonder have another gear?” Tice asked from the backseat.

  Looking over his shoulder Daymon fired back, “You’re still more than welcome to walk.” Then as he turned his head forward, he registered a gaunt face in his peripheral vision.

  Cade’s shouted warning came a split second too late as the Scout clipped the walker, sending it airborne towards the guardrail.

  Instinctively Daymon worked the brakes.

  “No. Do not stop. Drive through and kill the lights,” Cade bellowed as he flipped down his goggles and powered them on.

  Daymon tromped the gas, and as he swerved Lu Lu around the throng, pale hands reached from the shadows, slapping the windshield and side glass leaving behind gory traces of blood and rancid dermis.

  Suddenly, in a loud and excited voice, Cade inexplicably ordered Daymon to stop and pull over.

  Daymon ground the SUV to a halt a safe distance from the pack of walkers they had just blown through. “Why in the hell are we stopping Sarge?” Daymon asked incredulously.

  Rapid fire, Cade detailed what he was seeing through the NVGs. “There are more Zs on the road in front of us. Twenty plus bodies. Distance, seventy-five yards.”

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck...they’re between us and the turnoff. This ain’t no Hummer Sarge... I know she will not go over top of them,” Daymon said as he reached for the stubby shotgun.

  Shaking his head, Cade put his hand on the shotgun, “We do not want to announce our presence. We do them all quietly starting with the Zs we just passed.” He looked at Daymon and patted the cylindrical suppressor affixed to the business end of the SCAR, flipped the 3x magnifier into place and folded the stock to full extension. He stepped from the Scout and sighted on the Zs on their six. Working the SCAR’s trigger he delivered silent death as one by one the encroaching walkers crumpled to the blacktop.

  Daymon hauled himself from Lu Lu, opened the rear hatch, and came back around wielding a wicked looking crossbow. “Quieter than yours,” he whispered to Cade.

  A different kind of crazy, Cade thought to himself as he turned his attention to the creatures farther down the road.

&
nbsp; As Tice, Maddox, and Lopez fought to extricate themselves from Lu Lu’s cramped backseat, Daymon took a knee near the front fender then brought the crossbow to bear on a twenty-something first turn. While the BYU sweatshirt-clad corpse limped closer, he aimed through the red dot scope placing the glowing pip on the zombie’s bobbing head. “You’re a long way from home Jack,” he muttered as he let the arrow fly.

  “Two door SUVs suck,” Tice bitched to no one in particular as he squirmed through the open driver’s side door. As soon as he was on the road he heard the unmistakable rasping sound of a first turn coming from the far shoulder near the ditch. He flipped his goggles down and scanned the glowing green foreground. Less than fifteen feet away he found the source of the sound. Hissing through a mouthful of broken teeth and trailing two broken legs, the female creature that Daymon had clipped a second ago clawed its way determinedly towards him. Without thinking about who the woman Z used to be, or whom it had loved, or been loved by, Tice double-tapped it in the forehead.

  Standing by the open passenger door, Cade replaced the magazine and charged his weapon then braced the SCAR on the truck’s A-pillar and engaged the crowd to their front. Starting with the closest Z, a freshly turned NA trooper, he walked his fire head high along their ranks, each good hit answered with a phosphorescent eruption of brain and bone.

  A steady thwap, thwap, thwap reverberated from Daymon’s crossbow as he scored head shots of his own.

  Once free from the backseat, Maddox and Lopez brought their SCAR carbines to the fight.

  The five men continued to shoot and reload until all of the zombies were down and they were no longer surrounded.

  “Let’s go,” Cade said as he changed mags, then he collapsed the SCAR’s stock and clambered into the rig.

  Daymon went forward and removed his arrows from the dead Zs and hastily wiped them off on the tall grass lining the side of the road.