Allegiance

by Shawn Chesser

  By the end of the tape the efficient killers had eliminated a host of people and were in the process of defeating what looked to be a thick ornate door.

  Soon, a flash of light marred the feed from the point man’s helmet-mounted camera, and when it returned to normal the door was hanging open on only one hinge.

  Then the image jounced and a man was removed forcibly from a very large bed, leaving a woman behind, struggling to cover her naked body.

  As Robert Christian watched the feed wind down, he recognized the man as former President and Guild member John Cranston. Then the point man pulled in for a close up and asked the man his name.

  “You know who I am. I’m John Cranston. Former President...”

  Suddenly a silenced pistol entered the frame, and Cranston was shot twice in the head. He fell to the carpet and the camera followed, then went black.

  Soon a second video played a montage of scenes. The first casualties recorded were the father and son Presidents from Kennebunkport, Maine. Their vehicle was ambushed near a bridge, and they were dragged from a late model SUV and questioned briefly before being executed. Mark Buchannon, dot-com billionaire was next—executed in his Napa Valley bug out retreat by another team of ruthless killers. The video ended with Texas oilman and Guild member Hank Ross leaving the earth on the receiving end of a precision drone strike.

  “Seen enough?” the disembodied voice said.

  “Fuck you,” Christian spat.

  The blow to his temple came from out of nowhere and made him momentarily lose consciousness.

  When he came to he saw stars, and the voice said, “Your Guild is dead, and the President sends her condolences.”

  Christian bit his tongue because lashing out verbally would only bring him more pain.

  “She wanted to make sure you were aware just how far you have fallen before you fall one final time tomorrow—through the opening in the gallows.”

  The interrogator removed the iPad and strode from the room, leaving Robert Christian as alone and helpless as he’d ever been.

  Chapter 66

  Outbreak - Day 16

  Winters’s Compound

  Eden, Utah

  Luckily, the Land Cruiser had been at the rear of the column when its fuel tank erupted. Three hours after the ambush, the thing was still smoking and too hot to touch. Duncan decided to leave it where it was, sitting on melted rims in the middle of the road at the far west end of the gradual curve—a warning to anyone else who thought about coming around and causing trouble. He made a mental note to sit down with the rest of the survivors—the men and the women—and brainstorm on better ways to protect them against further intrusions.

  The engine groaned as he used the Humvee as a makeshift wrecker and pushed the other bullet-riddled vehicles onto the shoulder. He slid out of the driver seat, walked over to the fence and retrieved the length of hose and the empty gas can from where Lev had left it.

  Not looking forward to the prospect of the foul-tasting diesel touching his lips, he trudged over to the Hummer with the destroyed engine block. Good shooting, Oops, he thought to himself as he watched the vehicle’s lifeblood dripping onto the cement. He noted how the black oil and antifreeze-tinged water refused to mix. It reminded him of how he and his little bro were before the apocalypse threw them back together. He had always wanted to foster some kind of a bond with his brother when Logan was a kid, but the drastic age difference had made it all but impossible. Now they were thick as thieves and he vowed to make up for lost time.

  He put the hose to his lips and sucked. Never works on the first try, he thought to himself. He tried again this time, sucking harder, and before he could pull away the familiar foul taste was in his mouth.

  After the five-gallon can was full, he put the hose aside and searched his pockets for the Zippo. Though he’d quit smoking years ago—for a woman, of course—he still carried the prized lighter he’d picked up in Da Nang.

  While Duncan was dealing with the destroyed vehicles, Lev and Logan heaped the rotters into the ditch along with the others from the day before.

  Duncan walked from one end of the moldering pile of corpses to the other, letting the thick diesel glug from the can. He didn’t discriminate—whether they used to be men, women, or children—all were anointed with their fair share of accelerant. And when he was done, he lit the Zippo and touched it to the nearest fuel drenched rotter..

  He watched the blue flame jump from body to body as the unmistakable stench of burning hair wafted over the funeral pyre. Soon the entire lot was fully engulfed.

  He watched the bodies sizzle and steam as fluids cooked off and vaporized. After a short time, a smell he remembered all too well assailed his nose. It was the same smell belched out of any flame-broiling burger joint or at home from the BBQ grill on a hot summer day. Burnt flesh was burnt flesh. Cow, lamb, or man—it all smelled the same.

  Having seen enough death for one lifetime, Duncan trudged up the hill to about the halfway point, and without saying a word took the shovel out of Jamie’s hands. He pushed the blade through the grass and began to dig into the soft topsoil. Before long the grave was big enough to accommodate the dead humans. Silently the shooters went about the grim task of burying the burned bodies from the Toyota, as well as the other bullet-riddled corpses. For an hour, they scooped dirt over the fallen, and when the staring eyes and contorted faces were covered, they tamped down the dirt.

  Then, starting with Chief, one by one the six men and one woman traded their shovels for a weapon. Before long, the engine noise that Chief had detected coming from the east became more pronounced and drew nearer.

  With the vehicles still sitting on the shoulder and the zombie bodies cooking in the ditch, there was no chance in hell that the approaching vehicle was going to pass by the scene without stopping to investigate.

  Duncan started off down the hill, sprinting for the operable Humvee, his sights set on the fully-loaded heavy machine gun. He parted the barbed wire and squeezed through, leaving a good-sized chunk of flesh behind.

  He reached the tan rig, climbed into the turret, and had just brought the machine gun to bear when a black and white SUV emerged from the east where the road curved to the right and disappeared into the trees. He kept one hand on the .50 cal’s handle and fumbled for the binoculars with his free hand. As he pressed the field glasses to his face, the words Jackson Hole Police Department leapt out at him. He steadied his arms on the bullet-pocked metal plate and focused on the driver.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said in a low voice. He recognized the dreadlocked driver, but the blonde woman who was riding shotgun was another story. “Hold your fire!” he bellowed.

  ***

  “Duncan!” hollered Daymon as he stepped from the Tahoe and stretched his long legs. “Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, last I remember I was watching you from a hundred-foot hover back in Driggs... scalping zombies and jumping fences.” He clapped the taller man on the shoulder. “Good stuff.”

  “Some help you were.”

  “At least I hovered and distracted them and made sure you got inside your house... felt like a dad watching his kid walk off to school alone for the first time.”

  Daymon went silent. He looked at the wound on Duncan’s face, then his gaze shifted to the remnants from the lopsided battle, the oily smoke drifting from the ditch where the bodies had been reduced to misshapen human-like forms. He looked at the bullet-pocked vehicles. Then he regarded the hard faces of those he didn’t know or failed to recognize. “I thought you said the compound was in Eden, Utah.”

  “Not technically. It butts up against federal lands on one side. Eden and Huntsville are about the same distance as the crow flies. Methinks my little bro just liked the ring Eden has to it.” Duncan smiled and pointed at the Tahoe. “Get in your rig. I’ll show you to the compound where you and me can play a little catch up and the others can get acquainted.”

&n
bsp; “What about this?” Daymon said, making a sweeping gesture at the burned and bullet-riddled vehicles.

  “We’re finished here for now.”

  I’d hate to see what the encore looks like, thought Daymon as he walked back to the Tahoe. He smiled to set Heidi at ease as he slid into the driver’s seat. “Thank God for GPS,” he stated. “The compound is close to here.”

  Somewhere west of the Colorado Rockies

  Ian Bishop gazed across the crystalline waters lapping at the sand near his feet, then considered the razor-edged upthrust peaks filling his view and the forces that had shaped them. He took another long pull from his Corona and crunched it back into the overfilled ice bucket, thinking there wasn’t another place he would rather be.

  So far the occupants of the nearby towns and all of the survivors scattered about tending to their own little fiefdoms hadn’t seemed bothered by his arrival and the added activity. That he and his men helped to keep the undead population down by sending out patrols of their own seemed better than a few promises or treaties filled with hollow words.

  But that will soon change, Bishop thought. When the men returned from their foraging missions, the balance of power in this alpine nirvana was going to shift noticeably. And when it did, the folks would either be with him or against him—no middle ground.

  He brought the bottle to his lips and listened to the generator hum in the distance. Suddenly the Iridium sat phone in his pocket rang.

  He looked at the incoming number, then at his watch, noted the time and thought to himself: Just like clockwork. Time to sink or swim, Elvis. If he couldn’t figure out a way to get to the coordinates I provided, then the man doesn’t deserve to be part of the new venture.

  With a no nonsense look on his face, Bishop silenced the phone and fished another cold beer from the ice.

  Chapter 67

  Outbreak - Day 16

  Near Pierre, South Dakota

  “I’ve got you on visual, Oil Can Five-Five,” Ari said. “Right on time once again.”

  “Roger that, One-One. Five-Five maintaining altitude and speed.”

  “Copy that,” Ari replied. He switched to the shipboard comms. “General Gaines, please remind me to give Whipper a big fat sloppy kiss when we get back to Schriever.”

  “Forget Whipper,” Gaines intoned. “Captain Grayson here is the one who should be on the receiving end of that affection.”

  Cade had been lost in thought, staring out the window, watching the multicolored plats of land slide beneath the helicopter, but as soon as he heard his name mentioned he glanced over at Gaines, shook his head and returned his gaze to the landscape below.

  “Want to tell them what transpired between you and Whipper?” Gaines asked.

  Cade said nothing in the hopes that Gaines would drop it.

  “You tell them or I will.”

  Gritting his teeth, Cade wondered who’d told Gaines about the scuffle. Then he decided it didn’t really matter—it was done. Water under the bridge, so to speak.

  Cade turned his gaze to the general. “I knocked his dick in the dirt,” he said slowly over the comms for all to hear. In the background, he noticed Hicks turn from the starboard gunner’s seat and flash a thumbs up as a broad grin creased his face.

  “Wait one, Captain,” Ari said, cutting him off. He tapped a button on the glass display that caused a noise underfoot as the refueling boom extended from the Ghost’s snout. “After we refuel... I’m all ears.”

  Ari maneuvered close to the Herc and expertly plugged the probe into the bobbing drogue chute. Then, fighting against a minor side wind, he kept the helo level and steady while a considerable amount of fuel was transferred. Next he uncoupled, eased away, and then retracted the boom into the helo’s belly.

  “Next,” Ari said, indicating it was Ripley’s turn to commence her final refueling of the flight.

  “Roger that. One-Two moving into position,” Ripley said. Effortlessly, she hooked the Osprey up with the lumbering Hercules. A couple of tedious minutes later, hundreds of pounds of fuel had flowed into the Osprey’s tanks, Ripley bled her airspeed and backed off from the drogue.

  "Jedi One-Two, why don’t you go ahead and get your passengers back to Schriever. I’m going to the deck to check on our friends in Pierre.”

  “Copy that, One-One. Jedi One-Two is RTB—returning to base.”

  “Roger that. Meet me at the mess tent, Ripley?” Ari asked in an amorous tone.

  “Don’t bet on it, Night Stalker. This aviator doesn’t see other aviators.”

  “Copy that,” Ari said, putting on a sad act. “Too good for us commoners,” he added in his best British accent.

  “One-Two out. See you back at Schriever.”

  Ari watched the Frankencopter accelerate and climb while at the same time he did the exact opposite.

  “Durant has been on the horn with Schriever,” said Ari. “Whipper came through again. I’ll go low so we can see with our own eyes.”

  “Did he arrange an ammo resupply?” Cade inquired.

  “And then some. Beans, bullets, and bandages. The whole nine yards,” Durant answered.

  “Dang, Captain,” Lopez piped up. “What did you do? Give the old first sergeant a couple of titty twisters and force him to say uncle?”

  “I heard it was a reach around,” added Cross, who had been silent and brooding since they went wheels up in Winnipeg.

  Cade shot him a murderous stare that softened somewhat after a beat. “You’re not Delta yet, Cross. That means you don’t have the pedigree to bust my balls like that. Now put a couple more missions under your belt riding along with us on... what does Ari call his new venture?”—Cade thought on it for a second—“Night Stalker Airways. You meet those requirements, then, and only then, will you become an honorary Delta shooter and be able to crack on me like that. Right, General?”

  Gaines turned his head to the Secret Service agent and nodded. “How bad do you want to be a member of Delta?”

  “Am I being recruited?” Cross asked incredulously.

  “No... we’re just fucking with you,” said Cade.

  “Sorry to break up the love fest, ladies,” quipped Ari. “But we’re two mikes out from Pierre.”

  The operators shifted on their canvas seats to get a better view.

  Tice readied his Nikon.

  Lopez couldn’t resist. “Preserving visions of hell for future generations, eh, Spook?”

  “Following orders, pendejo.”

  Lopez bristled then stood down. “I almost forgot Mister Puker Patch here is honorary Delta now. I prefer asshole over pendejo... asshole.”

  ***

  As Ari held the Ghost Hawk in a tight orbit over the battlefield below, Durant called up the commander on the ground. A subordinate fielded the call, and then after a few ticks of silence a new voice came over the comms. An upbeat-sounding Captain Rodriguez thanked whoever arranged the drop and then explained how—in just the span of a few hours since the resupply—he and his men were finally beginning to make a dent in the number of walking dead.

  “It was nothing,” Gaines replied. “I’m sure you would do the same for us if the tables were turned.”

  The captain didn’t reply, but his mike stayed hot for a moment and gunfire and men yelling to one another somewhere in the background came through loud and clear. Finally Rodriguez came back on and said, “Tell the folks at Schriever we owe them one.”

  “Will do soldier,” Gaines said. “Godspeed to you.”

  ***

  Twenty minutes later

  With Gaines’s permission, Ari took the Ghost Hawk close to the deck, “Any of you guys seen Top Gun?” Ari asked.

  “Who hasn’t?” came Durant’s stock answer for every obvious question Ari posed.

  Heads bobbed an affirmative throughout the cabin.

  With the rocketship-like E-Ticket ride up the eighty-degree face of the Flaming Gorge Dam fresh in his mind, Cade merely grinned. He doubted Ari could top that one for wow
factor, but he knew better than to put anything past the hotshot pilot.

  “Well Goose,” Ari quipped. “It’s time to buzz the tower.”

  Cade felt his back press to the bulkhead as the Ghost accelerated. He nudged his ruck under the seat Gaines was occupying, cinched his safety harness, and held his rifle tightly between his knees with the muzzle facing the decking.

  “Hold on to your hats, ladies,” Ari said over the shipwide comms. He eyed two rows of trees running parallel one on either side of the helo’s flight path, spaced about a hundred yards apart, just on the other side of what appeared to be a centuries-old church. “Ride’s going to get bumpy,” he added as he took the ship closer to the ground.

  Through the window Cade saw nothing but a brown and green blur. It was like he was staring at a blender as someone whipped up something way too healthy for consumption. He looked at Tice, who was turning whiter by the second. Then he regarded Hicks, who seemed to be dozing—though he couldn’t see the crew chief’s eyes through the smoked visor and couldn’t be certain.

  Next to Cade, copying what he had seen the other Delta boys already do, Cross was cinching himself in tighter. He’d ridden into combat on a Little Bird’s platform and in a Black Hawk a hundred times while he was in the Teams, but his sixth sense was telling him he was in for a treat.

  After signing himself for the tenth time during the mission, Lopez eased back next to Tice and clopped his new buddy on the shoulder.

  Performing a maneuver he’d pulled off hundreds of times in Middle East wadis, forests over the Fulda Gap in Germany, and a hundred other places around the globe, Ari leaned the Ghost on its side so the rotors looked like a giant circular saw about to slice through the rapidly approaching church. Then, at the last second, he leveled the craft and popped it up and over the black-shingled roof, narrowly missing the white thirty-foot-tall steeple before hugging the terrain on the back side of the building.