Soldier On: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Trudge)

by Shawn Chesser

  Being that he was still not under attack, he wrestled with the question: should he wait for Mother Nature to once again cast light on the subject or should he flick the night vision goggles on and go hunting?

  The decision was made for him, when at once, a pale hand penetrated the threadbare canvas top and a clenched fist shattered the glass inches from his head. The hand from above clutched the top of his helmet while the other groped at his neck. In one motion Cade recoiled from the clawing hands and discharged two shots, rapid fire through the broken window. The night vision goggles were rendered useless for a long moment, washed out from the muzzle flash in the confined space. The zombie was flailing wildly and thrusting its arms into the darkened interior. Cade scrambled over the stick shift and popped open the canvas door with his shoulder. His exit was less than graceful; he fell out of the passenger side and barrel rolled before getting back on his feet.

  Cade moved away from the vehicle and flipped the goggles up hoping that his own night vision would be of use. Though his ears rang from the gunshots he could still hear the ghoul shuffling around in the dark campground. The smell emanating from the walker was much worse than that of the rotting woman in the tent.

  The next flash of lightning only allowed Cade two poorly aimed shots at the approaching zombie. The first 9 mm slug destroyed the lower jaw of the burly corpse, leaving it a gaping black hole for a mouth. Shot number two sailed harmlessly into the wilderness. The monster was so close Cade could feel its presence, he flipped the goggles back down only to find the jawless zombie two feet in front of him, its head panning left to right, the green glow making it all the more evil looking. Cade froze and held his breath, partially because the odor made it necessary but also he didn’t want to give his position away; after a few seconds it lunged at him without warning and its cold hands encircled his neck. The zombie was much stronger than he thought it would be. Cade used every ounce of strength to ward off the two hundred pounds of dead weight with his free hand. He inserted the Glock into the empty hole where the things lower mandible used to be and squeezed off two shots, resulting in a shower of glowing green brains splattering the side of the Jeep. The zombie’s lifeless hands still had a firm death grip around his neck when the corpse sunk to its knees, dead for good. It took two back and forth sawing motions with the Gerber to sever the wrist tendons causing the dead fingers to spring open.

  Cade inhaled deeply willing the stars of near unconsciousness away and massaged his neck, feeling for broken skin. He had no idea if the Omega virus could be transmitted through an open wound and he hoped to never find out.

  Cade’s black Suunto read 6:15 am, the first light of dawn was weaving tendrils through the boughs of the trees and the rain had petered out. The full scope of the damage inflicted the night before wasn’t evident in the flat green glow of the NVGs. Now that the sun was making an appearance Cade got a good look at the walker that had almost punched his ticket. The dead creature had on scuffed hiking boots, tattered and torn walking shorts and a light flannel shirt fully blackened with brittle dried blood. Cade found a wallet on the corpse and feeling like a voyeur he rifled through the man’s personal things. His initial assessment appeared to be correct, Mr. Bob Kirkman of 2231 Glenhart Drive, Salt Lake City, Utah, had been carrying three thousand dollars worth of crisp twenties and ten ATM slips documenting their withdrawal. The dates on the slips indicated Mr. Kirkman had been in Salt Lake on the Saturday of the outbreak. Also in his possession was a picture of a woman that might have been the one in the tent, Cade had no intention of attempting a positive identification. If he had to venture a guess; Salt Lake had been over run with zombies early on and that was the reason the man and woman took to the hills. How Bob had become infected, and when the corpse in the tent had met her fate was the real mystery.

  Before he left the River Bend campground, Cade manhandled Bob’s headless body and rolled it into the tent. The contents of the wallet had put a face on the dead couple, and they were once like him. It seemed right to reunite them in death.

  Chapter 8

  Elbert County Georgia

  June, 6, 1979

  Two muddy tire tracks snaked through the cow pasture in the middle of the Georgia sticks. It had taken an hour to drive here and adding insult to injury the client didn’t even get his boots dirty. Peter let the engine idle for all of five minutes, while the two ton limo sank into the muck. Apparently his passenger had seen all he needed. The man spoke through the intercom and instructed him to proceed to the next destination. Peter knew he had heard the man’s voice before-but he couldn’t place it.

  When he finally managed to get the immense car turned around, he noticed the realty sign had a red “SOLD” sticker affixed to it.

  The first ninety miles from Atlanta were blacktop heaven but the last twenty had been back road hell. The hired driver struggled to keep the big beast travelling in a straight line. The Lincoln Town car limousine swayed and shimmied, its springs loudly protesting each depression in the road. It wasn’t much of a road. It was mostly gravel and potholes with washboard grooves scoured into it by the continual spring showers. The road would eventually dead-end at the Ellington quarry, four brutal miles from pavement usually only negotiated by large, high clearance trucks.

  The brown cloud caught up with and enveloped the limousine as it rolled to a halt. Peter waited for the cocoon of dust to descend on the once black automobile before he stepped out to open the door for his important passenger.

  Peter helped the man out and stole a brief glance at him. He appeared to be in his early forties, blonde hair starting to show hints of gray, peeked out from under his black beret. Wide rimmed black sunglasses and a thick moustache camouflaged his true features. The face, combined with the distinctive voice still didn’t help to pry the man’s identity from the recesses of Peter’s memory. For sure he was a big time player in the south but it wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on his identity. Peter’s personal rule was to never ask questions or make small talk unless addressed first. It was easier that way and honestly, the tips were better when the clients sensed their anonymity was being respected.

  He got back in the drivers seat and observed his passenger approach the squat, windowless office building. The familiar looking man carried a rugged aluminum attaché case in one hand and a three foot long black tube in the other. Peter watched him with idle curiosity until he disappeared into the building.

  ***

  The bell at the top of the door jangled, announcing the possibility of a paying customer, few and far between these days.

  “Howdy.” Milo Williamson looked over his bifocals at the tall stranger. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m Robert Christian, I represent a consortium of businessmen and we are erecting a stone monument in Ellington.”

  Milo looked the man up and down. It struck him as strange that the fella didn’t remove his sunglasses once inside, but it truly was none of his business. “What kind of monument and where will it stand?” Milo then realized, to his dismay that he forgot to introduce himself to his visitor. “Oh forgive me. It must be the humidity messing with my brain-my name is Milo Williamson,” he said offering his calloused hand.

  The man reciprocated, pausing for a heartbeat, “Robert Christian, the pleasure is all mine.”

  What soft feminine hands, he must be an executive. Milo thought. All of the bankers that had been turning him down for a loan lately had the very same buttery hands. Giving out notes for twenty plus percent interest sure was highway robbery. It definitely wasn’t hard work. Milo was still sore the family business might fold. The economy had us in a bind and nothing was getting done...especially not in granite. “Sorry, I lost my train of thought. Refresh my memory, what and where?”

  “It’s a piece of modern art and the property is in Ellington, like I said.” Milo’s potential client seemed annoyed. Well country bumpkin, Robert Christian thought, “Do you have time to do the job or should I go elsewhere?”

 
Milo gestured to the cylinder on the counter. “May I see the plans?”

  The man unrolled the blueprints, trapped one side down with his tan, brick sized mobile phone and held down the other side with his free hand.

  “Whoa...are these dimensions correct? Assuming they are, each of these slabs will weigh roughly ten tons each.”

  “The plans are to be followed precisely. One deviation and the celestial features in the design won’t work.”

  “What do you mean by celestial features?” Milo said scratching what little hair he had left on his head.

  The tone of the man’s voice suddenly changed. It was even more apparent his patience was wearing thin. “Do you want the work...or shall I move on?”

  “Let me look at these for a moment.” The old quarryman started making calculations. “Not counting the etching and there will be a lot of extra time consuming work there...”

  Robert Christian interrupted Milo by placing the attaché on the counter and opening both latches. “We need it completed no later than March twenty-second.”

  “The timeline will be doable. It’s going to cost roughly thirty thousand dollars though.”

  Robert Christian spun the case around to face the older man and opened the lid. Inside were neatly bundled stacks of twenty dollar bills. Andrew Jackson never looked better to Milo.

  “There’s fifty thousand dollars here. Get the job done on time and the difference is yours. Consider it a performance bonus.”

  Milo, not wanting to seem desperate, waited three seconds before accepting. “One thing though. What does the first line mean?” He had his finger on the blueprints. The first line that was to grace the monolith read Maintain humanity under 500,000,000 in perpetual balance with nature. “Is that some kind of cryptic warning?”

  He never got his answer; the bell signaled the mysterious man’s exit.

  ***

  During the two hour drive back to Atlanta, Robert Christian contemplated his actions and the times he lived in. The world needed a wake up call. And it had to be something more than a thirty second commercial portraying a polluted landscape with a lone American Indian, in full authentic native garb, shedding a tear for Mother Earth. Any heart strings the spot might have tugged were quickly snipped by the next ad urging, more, get it now, must have and consume.

  During the sixties, as a much younger man he tried to do his part. He went to rallies, marched and participated in sit-ins.

  The seventies saw him get involved in politics, only to have his eyes opened to the realities of the military industrial complex and how the two were tightly woven together.

  The monolith would not only enlighten the people that read the engraved words, but it would also stand as a tangible reminder to keep the Guild on task.

  Although the writings etched into the granite obelisk touched on population control and leaving the earth better for the next generation, it wasn’t a blatant call for eugenic action. Sadly deep down Robert Christian knew that man would take care of that one way or another.

  With the Soviet Union and the United States locked in a cold war, and a few hot wars by proxy, it was looking more and more like the cleanse might be accomplished through nuclear holocaust.

  It didn’t matter. The Guild would be ready and waiting, no matter the world changing event, to step in, pick up the pieces and send mankind onward in a good orderly direction.

  The man in the back seat drifted off still thinking about the eventual ascension of his new world order.

  ***

  Milo had the rock quarried and carved exactly as instructed. With the help of two cranes and scores of workers-the precisely placed formation of granite obelisks that would later be named the Georgia Guidestones was erected on time. The date was March 22nd 1980.

  ***

  Present Day

  Outbreak Day 5

  Guild Headquarters. Jackson Hole, Wyoming.

  The rising sun illuminated the Grand Tetons making them glow as if they had been gilded by King Midas himself. The massive mountains and pristine wilderness was a fitting backdrop for the meeting about to take place. Twelve of the most powerful and influential men in America were arriving from all points of the compass. They were about to set in motion a plan that had been decades in the making.

  Their latest Manchurian candidate was now dead, Odero deviated at the end and it cost him his life, still they had to press on. The crisis that had fallen into their lap wasn’t the one that they had strategized for, let alone could have ever fathomed. The United States of America was about to be drawn and quartered and each man would get their piece of the pie.

  The mansion was the typical wood beam and stone construction that dominated in places where snow covered the ground the majority of the year. Sitting on a broad swath of land nestled up against the Grand Tetons, it was more compound than typical mountain Mcmansion. The first dead giveaway was the twelve foot tall, by two foot thick rock wall ringing the perimeter of the property. Ubiquitous shiny black domes hung like bats from multiple locations, they housed the many video cameras and were strategically placed to provide overlapping visual coverage of the entire grounds. Security personnel, openly carrying automatic weapons, walked the grounds in and outside of the walls.

  ***

  Armored SUVs, of different makes and models began arriving at the grand estate, trickling in before dawn. The Escalades, Denalis and Hummers all entered through a remotely operated sliding metal gate.

  Before the outbreak, the winter ski destination had been home to many Hollywood elites, CEOs of Fortune 5oo companies and a smattering of billionaires and multi-millionaires. The majority of the resort workers lived on the other side of the Teton pass in Driggs, Idaho. During the summer months in Jackson Hole, Yellowstone National Park was the main attraction.

  The security gate rolled away to let in the civilian model Hummer. Three men emptied from the vehicle, their big black carbines swept the circular drive seeking out any threats to their charge. Satisfied that all was as it should be they escorted the back seat passenger from the Hummer. Even though the man wore a Kevlar anti-ballistic vest the men formed a human wall that moved with him from his vehicle, and up the flight of stairs leading to the huge wooden double doors that opened into the 28,000 square foot home. The mountain mansion had originally been owned by an A-list Hollywood actor and now belonged to Robert Christian. The flamboyant billionaire fancied himself as the most ambitious man in the world.

  ***

  When the hidden door to the cavernous conference room opened, all eleven men seated around the dark mahogany table looked up from the documents they had been studying.

  Robert Christian stood six foot two. His presence dominated the room when he entered. “Stay seated gentlemen,” the newly arrived man intoned.

  “I will,” said the man still in his chair, directly to Christian’s right, “I stand for no man.”

  The room broke out in laughter, as to a man, they all stood and greeted the deeply tanned, blonde haired, blue eyed man.

  Each individual exchanged private words with the newcomer before taking their seats. Christian methodically worked his way to the head of the mammoth slab of polished old-growth.

  “Gentlemen,” he nodded his head silently and looked each man seated around the table in the eye; pausing for dramatic effect he straightened his red power tie before addressing them. He had no reason to try and influence or impress these men; they were all equals here with the same goal. Soon they would be dividing the United States between them.

  “As we speak, the first part of our global agenda has begun and is unfolding as planned.” Christian cracked the seal and poured his bottled water into an ornate crystal goblet before continuing.

  “I thank all of you for choosing me as the point man in New America.”

  “You have the biggest balls in the room,” said the tanned thirtyish looking man at the far end of the table. He was the youngest and yet the most outwardly confident man in attendance.

&
nbsp; He had amassed his fortune in the dot-com bubble. An inside trader with tendrils in every boardroom in America had tipped him and all of the other men in the room off before the crash; allowing them enough time to park their money in safe havens offshore. Getting rich from the misfortune of the common man was a continuing cycle for the power elites. The first great depression had made most of these men’s grandfathers fabulously wealthy-this latest depression transferred even more spoils into their coffers.

  “Gentlemen, all of you have been informed of our esteemed colleague’s untimely demise. I urged him to leave the White House and take his family to safety. Bernard Odero wanted nothing to do with our plan for this country after the fall. In fact he told me in his very own words that he despised all we stood for. It pained him to go along with our plan and run for office.”

  “Why did he agree then?” asked the former President, John Cranston.

  Robert Christian pressed a hidden button. At the opposite end of the rectangular table ornately carved walnut panels parted silently, revealing an eight foot wide flat screen monitor.

  “I reminded Mr. Odero that after four short years he would be in his early fifties and could spend the rest of his life with his wife and daughters, taken care of and protected by us...,” or “I was going to make sure that copies of these found their way into the hands of his strong willed wife.”

  The projector splashed picture after doctored picture of the young, then Senator, seemingly conducting an illicit affair. The woman had supermodel looks that would have given Heidi Klum a run for her money.

  “Good God, those are brilliant. Whose work are we looking at?” Cranston asked.