Griffin Blackburn spoke up, “Who’s supposedly in control of the country right now?” The man was the heir to the Blackburn fortune. His family had built their wealth the same way as all of the men in the room had. Gaming the system and profiting from wars while being privy to information that any inside trader would kill for.
Robert Christian promptly answered, “Valerie Clay,” dripping with venom, he drew out the words. “We have never been able to get her in our pocket. We have sent delegates from the right and the left. Anyone that we thought might appeal to her sensibilities. It was all to no avail. Her father was a decorated World War II pilot; he went on to serve his home state of Washington for decades. Gentlemen her patriotism will get in our way.”
Mark Buchannan, the newest made member of the billionaire boys club made his fortune in the dot com era. He was the youngest American to amass such a fortune, at the ripe old age of twenty-seven. Now in his late thirties he thrived on power, competition and exclusivity- the reason that he initially angled to become one of them. “We haven’t a clue where she is but we have people working on it.”
“Gentlemen the second phase of our plan is hurtling forward. Soon the US Navy will retaliate against China for the sinking of the USS Seawolf. This should draw in the Russians because the engagement took place near the Kamchatka peninsula. It is one thing to lurk under their waters but it is an affront to their sovereignty to openly wage warfare there. Getting the Eagle, Dragon and the Bear fighting each other only accelerates our plan.”
Captain of industry and big Texas oilman Hank Ross asked in his thick southern drawl. “How long do we have to keep our kin sequestered? It can’t be too long because living in Texas; they won’t stand to being cooped up.”
“The theory is the walking dead only have three to nine months before the decay stops them from being ambulatory so don’t worry about them. All we do is sit back, sip cognac and wait for the infighting. Attrition is our friend.” Robert Christian leaned back and finished his water, “My good friend Chuck Heston was a proponent of the Second Amendment. I held a different view. I wanted to have the guns for myself...but in hindsight an armed America is a good thing. Now, given enough time, they will kill each other off and also take a large portion of the infected with them.”
Ross cleared his throat and drawled, “What will we do about the rest of the military, and the armed citizenry when we take control of the country?”
Ian Bishop spoke up. “I founded Spartan International and built it from the ground up for an event such as this. Men, we have a large private army built with funds paid to me by the US Government.” The former Navy SEAL, corded muscles rippling under his shirt, stood up and raised his deep voice a notch in volume. “As we speak, elements of Spartan are fanning out from different parts of the country. Our primary objective is to acquire as much of the unguarded United States arsenal as we can.”
The oldest man in the room cleared his throat before addressing the young operator, “I know you well Captain Bishop. You were on the tip of the spear the first time we had boots on the ground in Iraq. Is that right?”
“Yes, Mister President.”
The ex-President from Kennebunkport continued his line of questioning. “With all due respect Sir, do you expect the United States Military to roll over and hand us the keys to the kingdom?”
“From what I have been told, most, if not all of the bases to the east of the Rockies have personnel problems. They either have skeleton crews that are lying low and waiting for orders to come from a nonexistent government or they are unmanned presently. The fact that this thing started on a Saturday is both a blessing and a curse.”
The forty-third President of the United States entered the discussion. “Mr. Bishop, we haven’t met, but if my daddy will vouch for you then you’re all right by me. One question, what is the blessing and what is the curse?”
Bishop ignored the fact that two questions had been asked of him instead of the purported one. The ex-President had a penchant for double speak and butchering words.
“First the blessing, since the United States has not been attacked by soldiers on our soil since the Revolutionary War, almost all of the military installations encourage their cadre to live off base, thus leaving very few behind to guard the henhouse. The curse is the fact that most of the civilian population was at home and not at work when the outbreak occurred. It would have been much easier to surround the population centers one by one and exterminate those things. Unfortunately, we’re going to have to conduct the cleanse starting in the suburbs and working into the cities.”
The former President belted out a wheezing laugh. “Ok. Color me convinced.”
Chapter 9
Outbreak Day 5
Camp Williams 19th Special Forces Garrison
Draper, Utah
The zombies were amassed ten deep when Corporal Litters reanimated. His daughter Becca was front and center when the combined weight brought the fence down on top of him.
Becca led the procession as hundreds of feet trampled over his supine body. Soon after the throng passed, the newly turned soldier arose and limped after, dragging his shattered leg behind.
***
Major Beeson was forced to up the ante on the dead, initially they were luring the zombies into a slit trench and burning them, now there were too many arriving. There were no longer lulls between the waves of infected. The two heavy dozers they had employed in their earlier attempts to bury and burn the walkers were now being used differently. The dozers had protective cages and were fully armored. They had recently returned from deployment overseas and had been up armored there; the ingenuity of warriors on the battlefield knew no bounds. Most of the vehicles at Camp Williams had also been used in combat operations in Iraq and Afghanistan and were up armored as well.
The major had no shortage of volunteers to operate the bulldozers. Keeping the fencing clear of undead was fairly straight forward; the dozer operators simply plowed over the infected, the heavy treads churning up the corpses. It was a very messy job, skulls popped, geysers of brain matter spewed forth, arms, legs and chunks of putrid flesh often times clogged the treads.
Disturbingly the dead were beginning to show some cunning. Increasingly dozer operators had to engage zombies that were able to claw their way onto the tractor, sometimes using other zombies as a means to climb onboard.
It was Private Hector Vargas idea to cut the slit trenches to slow down the first waves of zombies, and he was also the first to volunteer for dozer duty after that tactic had become ineffective.
Hector had become a United States citizen when his mom gave birth to him in Laredo, Texas. He spent the next eighteen years in the shadows. His family lived on various ranches and orchards all across the southwest. Working menial jobs for little pay was the norm for people like Hector’s mom and dad who had entered the U.S. illegally in search of a better life. He watched the television whenever he had a chance, the exciting recruitment commercials weren’t lost on the bored youngster. His dream was to see the world. He turned eighteen less than a year ago, that same day he joined the U.S. Army looking forward to combat in a foreign land. The Iraq war slowed down before he completed basic training and to his disappointment he was eventually stationed at Camp Williams. To his chagrin he was nothing but a glorified maintenance man who happened to know how to drive a tractor. If it wasn’t for the young man’s ingenuity and bravery, the base would have fallen on day one.
***
Hector had a bandanna slathered with menthol petroleum covering his nose and mouth. Most of the walkers had been dead for days; it was July, the temperature had constantly been in the mid-eighties and the corpses were ripe with decay. Not only did the dead reek but they were also host to maggots, grubs and ants. Today Hector operated the only working tractor. Mechanics were tearing the other broken rig apart desperately trying to repair it. It was an uphill battle trying to keep the perimeter clear with only the one tractor. Before leaving the gate, the Private g
ave his tractor the usual once over, it was full of diesel and running flawlessly. Hector maneuvered the dozer effortlessly as he pushed the growing mound away from the fence. If enough corpses were allowed to pile up the undead would eventually start to climb over their fallen and get into the camp. It was the reason the major had crews operating the heavy machinery around the clock. Now that Private Vargas was operating the only running dozer he was fighting a losing battle.
He knew that something was wrong when the multi ton piece of equipment started responding sluggishly to his commands. Terror washed over him, a shiver of cold electricity started his adrenal glands pumping. Even though he had on bright orange heavy duty ear protection, the howls of the dead still found a way in. The tractor registered as a steady purr in his head and the lurching machine vibrated his bones. Abruptly the tractor died and Hector no longer felt the throbbing of the diesel engine under him. He found himself trapped in a sea of monsters with only the flimsy wire mesh cage to keep them at bay. With the tractor stalled and unmoving the zombies swarmed onto the behemoth to get at the man inside. Rotting hands slapped against the sides of the metal cocoon groping for Hector. His situation was hopeless and he knew there was no way for the men inside to come to his aid without endangering themselves or letting the zombies flood in. He smiled and closed his eyes thinking good thoughts about his Madre and Padre. Thankfully he had strapped the semiautomatic Beretta M9 to his hip before he left the base.
***
Major Beeson had been summoned to the front gate the moment the last tractor quit running. Goddamnit why couldn’t it have started acting up inside of the wire? He thought, as he watched more of the monsters scramble onto the dozer. There were so many onboard that he couldn’t see Private Vargas.
***
The safety of the base stood sixty feet away; it might as well have been two miles, for there were so many undead Hector knew there would be no escape for him.
In Spanish, Hector recited the Lords prayer. His sidearm held fifteen rounds of 9 mm and he used fourteen on the closest of the creatures; they were near enough to touch and touch them he did. Fourteen zombies fell from the deck of the tractor, dead once and for all. Private Hector Vargas did the sign of the cross on his chest, peeled the muffs from his ears and placed the hot muzzle firmly against his temple.
***
Major Beeson helplessly watched the scene unfold from his vantage point. Engaged point blank, the dead started to fall from the tractor, the reports from the jerking gun were swallowed by the moaning of the undead. Finally Vargas placed the black pistol to his head, jerked in his seat and slumped forward.
The front gate was in danger of falling under the crush of the dead. Knowing full well his men were dangerously low on ammo and there were no reinforcements to call on, Major Beeson ordered the immediate evacuation of Camp Williams. The timing couldn’t have been better. Thanks to Corporal Litters, the back door was also wide open.
Chapter 10
Outbreak Day 5
Wasatch Mountains, Utah
The slot the road followed was a natural break in the long chain of mountains that started to the north in Idaho and ran all the way south to the Ogden valley in Utah. The rugged string of geological giants stretched for one hundred and sixty miles, bisected by only seven well traveled highways the entire way. The lightly used forest service road Cade had been following was forty miles equal distance between the two main passes.
He left the River Bend campground without eating, right after first light. Even though he had grown accustomed to the sight and smell of death, moving Bob’s sun ripened corpse had spoiled his appetite.
The predawn fight with undead Bob was like a triple shot of espresso to his system. That had been two hours ago, right now he was crashing from the adrenaline high.
Cade ground the bike to a halt in the shadow of a tall fir and pulled a soft Snickers bar from one of his many pockets. He slurped the hot candy bar and finished by rolling the wrapper up like a tube of toothpaste and squeezed the remnants into his mouth. A fleeting thought crossed his mind. He wondered what would happen after all of the candy bars had been pillaged or had far exceeded their use by date. It was a silly thought at a time like this but he had no idea how chocolate was made or creamy nougat for that matter. Oh the things civilized people had taken for granted. Everything changed forever a few short days ago.
Lost in thoughts of the mundane, he surveyed the country directly in his path. The view from the apex of the unimproved byway was majestic. The east side of the mountains spilled out before him. Once again he consulted the topographic map to get some idea of what lurked underneath the lush, tree covered flanks of the Wasatch. The Suunto watch on his wrist had an altimeter function; it put the elevation at 6600 feet above sea level, and the map he held confirmed it. He silenced the Kawasaki and rummaged in the saddlebag for bottled water. Cade sipped the water and listened to the mountain birds calling each other from the tops of the pine trees. This setting reminded Cade of Mount Hood, back in Oregon. It was hands down his favorite peak and the place he and Brook spent most of their free time hiking and skiing. The two of them had always marveled at how the ever present mountain birds could survive in the harsh environment. Their intrigue with the very intelligent raptors was the reason they gave their daughter her name. Whenever they were eating lunch on the tailgate of their truck invariably one or more of the big black ravens would come calling, looking for a handout or heckling all of the people dressed for the cold and carrying their multi-colored skis and snowboards. The setting and sounds caused Cade to reminisce about his wife and daughter. As he finished the last drops of his water he felt his throat begin to constrict about the time the tears started to flow. He was alone on the dusty road and let the emotion pour freely from his gut. In between sobs he thought that he could hear engine noise. After a couple of minutes, he heard it again, soft and a good distance away. The sound originated from the side of the pass he had recently emerged from. The road wasn’t as wide and the trees weren’t as thick as they had been coming uphill. With the bike in neutral he coasted the silent motorcycle around the first switchback.
An old deadfall seemed like the best place to hide the desert tan Kawasaki. Cade took the M4 from its hard holster and placed the bike on one side behind the gnarled trunk bristling with dead twisted branches. For good measure he scattered some scrub brush on top of the bike to help break up its outline. With his rifle in one hand and the silencer in the other he melted into the nearest cluster of pines.
In the time it took him to fasten the silencer to the barrel of the M4, the engine noise drew nearer and more pronounced. Cade picked his hide thirty feet from where his motorcycle was secreted. He observed the big SUV through the magnified scope on his carbine, picking up flashes of the green Suburban between the trees as it slowed on the downhill and braked for the sweeping switchback. The unmistakable bass of reggae music thumped from the open driver’s side window, behind the wheel was a light skinned black man with long flowing dreadlocks. His eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses and his head bobbed to the pulsating beat, keeping perfect time. The man neither slowed nor looked anywhere but straight ahead as he passed Cade’s position.
Now I have seen it all, Cade thought. It only took a few moments for him to uncover the hidden bike and kick start it. Cade slung the M4 carbine on his back where it would be much easier to access if he needed it.
Mister Rasta had a little bit of a lead but fortunately for Cade the heavy SUV left easy to follow tire tracks. Near the end of a long straightaway the gravel gave way to a single lane paved road. Cade slowed his pace so he wouldn’t accidently run into the Suburban that he was shadowing.
He was torn, should he make contact or not? On the one hand, if he let the man go along his merry reggae way then he might be letting the smallest scrap of useful information slip away. On the other hand he couldn’t just walk up to the man, say “Hi” and pick his brain. That is unless he stuck a pistol in his face. At the ve
ry least, the man would likely have some knowledge about the shape America was in. Cade finally came to the conclusion that in order to have any chance of finding his family he was going to have to mine the man for any useful nuggets of information that he might have.
Cade slowed the bike to a crawl. On the shoulder of the road sat a gold, two door, compact car. The small Mazda bounced on its springs, unfortunately no one was getting lucky in the back seat, the tomb still held its trapped occupants inside. There was so much gore from the initial violence and the subsequent decomposition, Cade had to move closer to see inside. Three flailing corpses festered in the stifling heat of the closed vehicle. Opaque with greasy green bodily fluids, the window flexed against pressing palms as the swollen zombie in the front seat fought the locked door to get at the meat. The poor souls in the back seat had been young kids, their faces pressing against the window almost seemed normal, except that they were both undead. Thankfully he wasn’t near enough to smell them but he could hear their howls over the idling bike. The car had Utah license plates with the rust colored rock arch splayed across the face. The cheap plastic frame held another clue; Saul’s Salt Lake Mazda was printed in raised bold yellow letters. He wished mercy upon the trio but there was no reason to waste any bullets on them. He left the macabre scene behind, thankful that he didn’t know anyone in Salt Lake. Duncan, the Vietnam era aviator that had stayed behind at Camp Williams, however, had a brother there. God help him, was the first thing that came to the former Delta operators mind.
Soldier On: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Page 5
