A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Walking into the conference room Cade was taken aback by the number of people sitting and standing around the expansive table.

  Valerie Clay sat at one end flanked by General Gaines, Colonel Shrill, Major Nash, and a handful of soldiers from the 10th Special Forces who Cade had seen before but hadn’t yet formally met.

  Behind the President, arrayed in a semi-circle, stood her protection detail clad in navy blue combat gear and toting MP7 machine pistols.

  Cade took a seat in an empty chair next to Freda Nash, removed his beret, folded it neatly, and placed it on the polished table.

  The diminutive Major glanced sideways, nodded, and returned her attention to Colonel Shrill who was going over the information already gleaned from Robert Christian’s first session with the CIA interrogators.

  After a few minutes the briefing ended and President Clay arose from her chair and moved around the table toward Cade.

  “At ease,” said the President as she pulled a chair and sat to Cade’s right. “Captain Cade Grayson, I was hoping I would get to thank you in person for bringing Robert Christian to justice. He has already confessed to conspiring to overthrow the government. Furthermore he sent Francis here to assassinate me but apparently the man, who is a bit of a loose cannon, decided to take matters into his own hands and did what he did.”

  “To be honest, Madam President, I had a dog in the fight.”

  “That’s the main reason I agreed to your proposal when Major Nash presented it to me. In light of all of your sacrifice... I think it was the least I could do so that you and your family can finally have some closure.”

  “I won’t have a shred of closure until I hear him confess.”

  The President pushed her chair away and stood up. She put a hand on the Delta operator’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze, then turned and disappeared through the door surrounded by a moving wall of muscle and guns.

  Nash poked her head out the door and barked at the man behind the security desk. “Croswell, I want you to help Captain Grayson transfer the prisoner. And Cade... this didn’t come easy.”

  “Nothing worth fighting for ever does,” he replied, looking directly into the Major’s eyes. Then turning to Croswell who had just entered the room he said, “Fill me in.”

  “Well, he’s been hooded the entire time and I’ve alternated the temperature between extremes as you ordered.”

  “I just talked to my wife and she mentioned that the doctor administered a larger than normal dose of anti-psychotic meds to the prisoner... has he talked?”

  “Your wife’s hunch was correct. His demeanor changed drastically after only a couple of hours and now that he’s lucid and coherent he has asked us to call him Francis instead of Pug. And to top it all off he says he doesn’t remember anything about the killing spree.”

  “Convenient,” Cade muttered.

  Croswell went on, “Dr. Keller examined the prisoner yesterday—when he still preferred to be called Pug. The doctor... actually he said he was a psychiatrist. Anyway, he indicated that Pug suffers from acute bi-polar disorder, some form, or multiple forms of PTSD, coupled with severe depression. But... the fact that he switches between wanting to be called Pug or Francis points to a severe multiple personality disorder... Keller said that would account for his alleged lapses in memory.”

  Cade sighed and said, “Let’s have a chat with Mister whoever he thinks he is at the moment.”

  Keys jingled as Croswell worked the lock. He pulled the door open and motioned for Cade to enter ahead of him.

  Cade squinted from the bright overhead light as Croswell tailed him into the interview room. The A/C was off. The warming air was thick with the dank overlapping odors of sweat and fear.

  Chains clinked as the prisoner sat upright in response to the opening door and subsequent footfalls.

  Croswell removed the hood. Purple bruising, tinted yellow around the edges, ringed the prisoner’s eyes and both ears were encrusted with black dried blood.

  Staring directly into the prisoner’s eyes, Cade asked, “What is your name?”

  “Francis Smith.”

  “Then who is Pug?” Cade asked.

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I told them... I do not know who Pug is,” the prisoner said forcefully.

  “Let’s revisit this one more time... sticky footsteps led from the research facility to your tent... your boots were still wet,” Cade said, jabbing a finger into the man’s chest. “You had the murder weapon in your possession. Hell... Scooby Doo and the gang could have tracked you down.”

  “Wasn’t me...” Francis mumbled, his eyes locked on the table top. “I’ll tell you what I told them. I left Breckenridge because of the Omega outbreak. People started eating other people... I met those other people on the road and came here with them. After that fucking quarantine I went to...”

  “Where did you go after that,” Cade pressed.

  “I don’t remember. Listen, you have to believe me. I’m sick. I was abused when I was young... and I have always had these lapses.”

  “Let me see if this jogs your memory. Robert Christian is not in Jackson Hole. He’s here at Schriever. In fact, he’s two rooms down being interrogated as we speak. Listen closely and you might hear him screaming.”

  Cade paused menacingly.

  “He is already on record saying that he sent you here to assassinate President Clay.”

  Francis’s face blanched.

  Cade noticed his breathing begin to quicken. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  The prisoner’s jaw trembled and he started to say something.

  “Too late,” Cade growled. He slapped a length of tape over the prisoner’s mouth and pulled a handful of flex-cuffs from his cargo pocket. He handed two to the airman and said, “Secure his wrists tightly behind his back.” Then, using three of the nylon restraints, he secured the prisoner’s legs, leaving just enough slack so that he could take small shuffling steps.

  Airman Croswell unlocked the manacles and hauled him to his feet.

  “I need a vehicle,” Cade said as he scooped up his weapons and hustled Francis toward the front doors.

  “Wait one,” Croswell said.

  Cade stood by the front doors soaking in the warm sun while Croswell brought a desert tan Humvee around. Then, being none too gentle, Cade and Croswell each grabbed an arm and a leg and heaved the hogtied prisoner into the back seat face first.

  “I’ll have it back before noon,” Cade said, suppressing a grin.

  ***

  Francis cried out each time the Humvee’s wide tires found a considerable pothole. He could no longer feel his fingers or toes. The inside of the hood that the rude soldier had cinched around his head had become slickened with snot and tears. Two minutes into the trip he had slid from the backseat and was now face down on the floorboard. His head had become a battering ram—hitting the door after each of the madman’s sharp turns.

  He had been on many journeys like this through the Nevada desert, he thought darkly. Only he had never been the one about to be buried.

  After one last bone jarring jounce the vehicle crunched to a halt. He heard the snick and the slam as the madman exited.

  Footsteps.

  Another click, only near his head.

  A tug.

  Weightlessness, and then jagged rocks and moist gravel biting into his side as he met the ground hard and lost his wind.

  Except for his labored breathing—silence.

  Suddenly the hood was off and the blazing sun was eyefucking him.

  As he fought to open his eyes, new sounds reached his ears. An emphysemic rasping sound. Rattling chain? No, it was chain-link fence he decided.

  More footsteps. He sensed the sun displaced then willed his eyes open. Of course the madman was the shadow’s owner and he was holding a black pistol.

  Cade grabbed Francis by an elbow and roughly dragged him into the corridor between the security fences.

  Eyes finally adjusted, Franci
s took in his surroundings. He was in a walkway between two very tall chain link fences topped off with razor wire. Half a dozen zombies pressed the fence three feet away. The wind shifted, bringing their stench to his nose. He grimaced, not from the smell but because he had an idea what the madman had in store for him. Then he watched the man stride forward and methodically walk down the fence line and shoot five of the six creatures in the head. The one that was spared growled indifferently at its compadres’ demise.

  The fact that the tall soldier hadn’t said a word since they left the police station was very unnerving. Say something, Francis thought, anything.

  Fight back, Pug whispered. Head-butt the fucker you pussy.

  Kneeling next to the prisoner, Cade flipped the man over onto his stomach, drew his Gerber and gently tapped it on the trembling man’s cheek.

  Francis went wild-eyed and squirmed against the flex-cuffs.

  The madman smiled and reached for the leg restraints.

  As Cade drew the razor sharp blade across both of the prisoner’s Achilles tendons, the man’s primal scream was suppressed by the length of duct tape. Cade waited until Francis’s sobs slowed, and then watched his reddened eyes dart to the creature and then back to the blood slickened knife. This went on for a minute as the excited creature hissed and rattled the fence, bony fingers kneading metal.

  He knows, Cade thought as he stepped around Francis’s prone body. He unlocked the gate and, using it as a barrier, allowed the lone walker access to the meat.

  The prisoner belly flopped and tried to inch along the soggy ground like a snake.

  Fitting, Cade thought as the creature ignored him and fell atop the bleeding man.

  After closing and locking the outside gate he swiftly sidestepped the carnage and repeated the process with the interior gate.

  Totally helpless, trussed and face down, Francis ceased fighting and went limp.

  The monster went for the neck first; yellowed teeth gnashing, the thing came up with a sizable hunk of bloodied flesh trailing veins and sinew.

  Cade let the feeding commence for a moment, then stuck the Glock’s muzzle through the fence and put a bullet in the creature’s brain.

  The prisoner struggled under the Z’s dead weight, making a bloody dirt angel as he fought to stay among the living.

  For my baby, for Carl, and for the untold others you have murdered, Cade thought sadly. Then he opened the inner fence, cut the plastic restraints from the dying man, reentered the base, and secured the fence once again.

  Cade sat on the Humvee’s warm hood, gazing at Desantos’ grave and the rifle and helmet and pair of now muddy combat boots that had been left there to honor the warrior. He shifted his gaze to Pug’s unmoving body and waited.

  First a twitch, then he thought he saw the body shift. Soon Omega had run its course through the dead man’s body and he had fully reanimated and was the one gripping the fence moaning for meat.

  Full circle, Cade thought as he strode to the fence. He drew the black Gerber and plunged the honed blade into the fresh kill’s eye socket. He felt the serrated edge grate against the Z’s orbital bone as he yanked it free, letting the fresh corpse fall to the ground.

  For you Mike.

  Epilogue

  Outbreak - Day 12

  Schriever AFB

  A whole day’s worth of warm sunshine flushed down the drain, Taryn thought. After being asked to disrobe by a woman soldier, and then, like a prisoner or something she had been thoroughly searched inside and out, she spent twelve hours in quarantine being watched over by grim faced soldiers who in her opinion were just one notch below Dickless. No, take that back, she thought. Dickless was on a pedestal all his own and she was glad she was the one who ultimately knocked him off. Sounds kinda Sopranoesque she mused. Knocked him off. Rubbed him out. Made him sleep with the fishes. She snickered.

  She needed to find a bed and get some quality sleep minus the door banging, knob rattling and familiar dead faces pressed against the glass.

  The soldier who had given her a map of the base had crossed out the civilian quarters in black sharpie and told her to not go there, making it crystal clear that that area of the base was off limits. However, he had pointed out an alternate set of temporary shelters that had been used by the medical personnel and were now empty. “Take your pick,” he had said. “Lock your door,” he had stressed.

  Mounting the steps, Taryn checked the door. Locked. She tried the key. Click—success.

  After heeding the soldier’s advice and locking the door behind her, she tossed the new camouflage clothes the soldier insisted that she take onto the desk near the door.

  The oblong room held three bunk beds arranged in a row near the rear of the building and as many desks evenly spaced along the right wall. A door beyond the bunks led to a small bathroom. What a luxury, she thought. No more squatting on Richard’s carpet.

  She rifled through the desks. Empty.

  Strangely, the prefab building didn’t smell anything like a hospital. But then medical personnel, the dwelling’s previous tenants, probably didn’t take the odor home with them either.

  She looked at her iPhone, and noticing that it still held a little charge, plugged in her ear buds. Then she turned off the overhead light plunging the room into darkness. Electricity, another luxury, she mused as she thumbed her phone on and used the soft glow it threw off to navigate her new environs. Then she settled on the bottom bed of the nearest bunk and started scrolling through her vast music collection.

  Jimi? No.

  Shins? No.

  Blue Oyster Cult... perfect.

  Engrossed in the tune and far from fearing the Reaper, Taryn noticed the light from the iPhone’s display reflecting off of something that had been tucked between the slats and the mattress of the top bed. She reached up and grasped the small brushed metal object, and as she pulled it free the distinct blue packaging and the word Oreo leapt out at her. Forgetting about the device that initially had caught her attention, she extracted the hidden booty and greedily wolfed down the unexpected treats. Brushing the crumbs from the bed, she picked up the thumb drive and turned it over in her palm. On one side the words PROPERTY OF THE CDC had been etched into the aluminum case. On the flip side someone had written FUENTES in bold black letters with a sharpie.

  Better have some awesome music on it, she thought to herself. She put the drive aside, rolled over and closed her eyes, then listened for the cowbell.

  ###

  Thanks for reading A Pound of Flesh. Look for Book 5: Allegiance, the forthcoming novel in the Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse series in the summer of 2013. Please Friend Shawn Chesser on Facebook