“Copy that amigo. I got myself a little Prairie Fire smoldering here.” The aviator retrieved his weapon and headed for the parade ground where the lone Black Hawk sat.
Four successive concussions moved the earth underneath his boots. Claymores, the sound meant that things were bad, very bad indeed. In Vietnam if you had claymore mines going off on the perimeter of your firebase then it meant one of two things. One, the mines were being used offensively, detonated with a hand crank at the precise time the enemy were in the kill zone to maximize the casualties. Two, the mines had been set up with a tripwire to act as an early warning device and kill any unlucky sapper before he got near the wire.
Constant gunfire was the norm over the last few days. The soldiers had experimented with all of their weapons to thin out the moaning bodies. The Mark 19 grenade launcher was a failure it only peppered their dead flesh with shrapnel. The grenadiers stared in amazement as scores of ghouls fell, only to pop back up and continue on, displaying the same unflappable zombie determination. It was a devastating weapon against living flesh but virtually useless against the dead. Claymore anti-personnel mines and hand grenades were equally ineffective. The supply of ammunition was at dangerously low levels, and aerial resupply wasn’t coming.
Duncan contemplated asking permission from the major before taking the helicopter. The situation at the front gate was deteriorating at such a rapid pace, he feared he would never find Beeson and leave himself enough time to preflight and escape alive. To be fair he would take on as many people as he safely could. He thought back to the fall of Saigon in 1975 and remembered vividly the anguished faces of the South Vietnamese that didn’t make his last flight. That Huey had been so loaded down that he thought he was going to be picking palm fronds out of his ass.
Duncan removed the tie downs from the rotor tips. There was no way that he was going to get atop the big bird to check the “Jesus bolt” so he made sure the tail rotor was sound and the other surfaces looked good. He strapped in and stretched his pant leg so he could clearly see the GPS coordinates. A few flicked switches later the engine whined and the sagging blades started their slow rotation.
Since he was not used to flying the Black Hawk he decided it would be smart to enter the destination into the computer now while on the ground. He didn’t want his attention divided while he piloted the complex piece of machinery. The chicken scratch on his leg was hard to make out, but he felt confident that the GPS numbers were inputted correctly. Duncan took a moment to get familiar with the digital (AFCS) Automatic Flight Control System. He found that there were more buttons to push on the contraption than an ex-wife. When he was finally finished with the flight computer he looked up. Three hundred yards away, at his twelve o’clock, were half a dozen shambling ghouls.
Duncan felt his pulse quicken as his body flooded with adrenaline. Without glancing down he automatically found the collective and goosed the turbine. There was a flash of movement in his peripheral vision. A soldier streaked by followed by several trotting undead. The man abruptly turned and emptied a magazine on full auto into the collection of ghouls. Three fell at his feet. A look of recognition crossed his face and he changed direction, sprinting for the open fuselage of the medevac Black Hawk. Duncan pulled back on power to let the man close the gap.
The undead that escaped his rock and roll fusillade continued after him while two more crawled through the blood of their brethren.
Duncan watched until the desperate man was at the door, he launched his frame inside as the Black Hawk lifted from the ground. He could see one of the man’s hands grasping at the canvas belt used to strap in the medical litter while the other flailed for another hand hold. Duncan couldn’t help him; he had to focus on flying the big beast of a chopper. Black Hawks were nothing like a Huey and he constantly had to remind himself of that.
A shriek rang out over the whine of the turbines and the noise of the rotor blades. Duncan glanced back to see one of the monsters receive a face full of combat boot from the screaming soldier. The female zombie’s lower jaw tore free leaving her tongue to loll around in the open hole that used to be her mouth.
“Persistent motherfuckers, they never give up.” The man was shouting to be heard over the increasing rotor noise. He started to stomp on the ghouls fingers. It felt absolutely no pain and maintained a vice like grip on the bulkhead. Finally the man’s combat boot won the battle. The monster tumbled thirty feet to the ground, the severed fingers rained down around her writhing body.
Duncan looked through the nose plexi and watched the zombie, dragging its shattered legs in search of fresh meat.
“Strap in, it’s going to get bumpy.” Duncan gave the soldier enough time to get seated and buckled before he banked the Black Hawk and began orbiting the battlefield.
A hundred feet below, the scene was chaotic. Fires raged, muzzle flashes winked, and sporadic explosions buffeted the chopper. The undead were surging around both the front and back of Camp Williams. The west side of the base suddenly brightened up. Row upon row of headlights cut through the haze and smoke of the constant ongoing battle with the undead. It gave Duncan hope for the people on the ground. The base housed more vehicles and weapons than able bodies. He had a tinge of regret for leaving with the only helo, but it couldn’t be avoided. He kept circling looking for survivors in need of help. It appeared that Major Beeson had his troops executing a textbook strategic withdrawal.
Chapter 33
Outbreak Day 6
Hanna, Utah
The humidity in the attic was stifling, and outside the day was beginning to heat up. Even the simple act of breathing was becoming a chore. A constant cacophony of sound from below added to their collective misery.
“When does the cavalry arrive?”
“Hoss, even if the cavalry does find us...how are you going to get your big ass through that small window?”
“I was trying to figure out a solution to that...if I stay in this sauna for a few more hours I should lose some weight. This is one big deja-vu after spending four days in the attic above my law office.”
The banter continued. Considering their situation, Daymon could think of nothing better to do. “Four days...how much did you weigh before the freaks started walking?”
“Too much,” Hoss answered dejectedly.
Daymon chuckled at his response.
Cade was probing the ceiling with his dagger and growing tired of the floor show. “I need you two to help look for weak spots, water damage or anywhere that these plywood sheets are compromised.”
Hoss stood hunched over in the confined space and set about in search for a way out.
Daymon sat on his haunches trying to conserve energy. He hadn’t had a drink of water for hours and was feeling it.
Hoss’ voice carried from the other end of the attic, “Over here...someone give me a hand.”
Cade tight roped along the rafters watching his feet to make sure he didn’t step where the insulation had settled. When he got closer, he could see the roof flexing above the big man’s back. Hosford’s stance made him look like a crouching Atlas, only not as svelte. Cade wasn’t the same height as the lawyer so he had to push with his shoulder. The added force popped a row of the nails holding the plywood sheeting to the ceiling joists. Cade worked his knife between the cracks, the roofing paper cut easily but he had to saw the outer layer with the serrated edge of the Gerber. It was slow going; he was only through a few inches of the asphalt shingles. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes.
“I’m gonna put my back into it again,” Hoss said, getting himself situated. He grunted from the exertion and was rewarded with a few more inches of blue sky.
Daymon sidled up adding his back to the efforts. With a prolonged creak and the sound of popping nails the roof opened up some more, allowing them to hear the distant rotor blades beating the morning air.
Hoss rallied the troops; he didn’t want to be the only one left in the attic, unable to fit his carcass through the
window when help arrived. The fresh air pouring in the opening was welcome, and invigorated all three of them.
Cade retrieved the canister of purple marking smoke from his side cargo pocket. It was the predetermined color he and Duncan had agreed upon. He pulled the pin and shoved the cylinder through the opening near his head; it rolled down the roof and plunked into the gutter. An angry, purple cloud spewed into the air. Anyone approaching by helicopter would have to be blind not to see it.
Cade put his back against the rooftop, “Big push...all at once.”
With the three of them working together they peeled an entire sheet of roofing, shingles and all free from the joists. The sudden weight leaving his shoulders caused Hoss to lose his balance, one wingtip shoe slipped from the rafter and his entire left leg followed, plunging through the lathe and plaster ceiling into the hallway below. A look of true horror flashed across the man’s face as cold fingers locked onto his dangling extremity.
Cade instantly realized what was happening. Hoss started screaming and hyperventilating. “My foot, they’ve got ahold of it. Help. Pull me up...don’t let them have me.”
Hosford’s body was being pulled through the sixteen inch wide gap. Below, in the hall, the undead were jockeying for a piece of his pasty leg. They had already ripped off his leather wingtip and sheer black dress sock. Frigid fingers worked to pull the meat towards their open mouths, the multitude of gnashing teeth yearning for a taste.
Cade tried with all his might to save the man from a horrible death; it was a lopsided tug of war, he was fighting the undead as well as the pull of gravity. Hosford Preston’s worst fear was becoming reality. He didn’t want to be one of them. A piercing scream left his mouth when the jagged teeth clamped down on his bare toes. The three smallest ones on his left foot were amputated by the ghouls grinding teeth. Blood sprayed onto the mob of flesh-eaters, exciting them all the more. Cade suddenly lost his grip on Hosford’s meaty hand. The crush of dead accepted all three hundred pounds of him with clawing fingers and open jaws.
“Finish him.” Cade yelled loud enough to be heard over the blood curdling screams.
Daymon moved Cade aside and trained the Glock through the jagged man sized hole. He aimed away from Hoss and fired three shots into the ghoul nearest the wailing man. If he had liked the lawyer even one iota, he would have emptied the entire magazine into his glistening dome and spared him from the fate much worse than death. Daymon’s eyes narrowed to slits as he watched the smug lawyer bleed out, bleating like a lamb at slaughter. It’s a pity, he thought, that I won’t be around to see the fat fuck turn.
Daymon quickly followed Cade out onto the steeply pitched roof. He looked upward. The massive black helicopter hovered, blotting out the bluebird sky. The white aspens ringing the property danced and whipped about in the downdraft, tendrils of purple smoke weaved through their fluttering leaves.
Inside the house the dead were stripping the flesh from Hosford’s body and greedily consuming him. Daymon would never know, but there wouldn’t be enough of Hoss left to reanimate.
Daymon watched the cable rescue ladder plummet from the Black Hawk and strike Cade square in the face. Instantly a fine red mist sprayed from the deep bloody gash across the bridge of his nose. Without regard for himself, Cade grabbed the ladder to stabilize it and motioned for Daymon to climb. Neither man could hear himself think let alone communicate. Cade waited until the other man was halfway inside the open cabin before he started his ascent.
Even as he was bounced to and fro in the rotor wash he thought, Duncan’s getting a hang of the Black Hawk. His hover isn’t as steady as one of the SOAR pilots, but not too bad for an old Huey driver.
As the helicopter gained altitude, Cade watched the treetops disappear below his boots. When he reached the top rung he was greeted by an extended hand. There was a trace of a smile on Daymon’s face, but Cade quickly dismissed it and latched on. Once inside the vibrating Black Hawk he noted the other passenger and then met eyes with the pilot. Duncan was animatedly pointing at his helmeted head. Cade understood what he wanted, located a flight helmet and plugged the jack into the bulkhead and then crawled into the co-pilot seat.
With his familiar twang, Duncan welcomed Cade aboard, “How’s it hanging Amigo?”
“Not as low as it was a minute ago. You got a bandage somewhere in this bird?”
Blood was still streaming freely from the gash, Cade tried to staunch the flow with his sleeve.
“Bandage...what you need my man is a tourniquet. I apologize for my boy Vincent. Chuckin ladders out of helos isn’t in his job description. From our brief conversation, turns out he was in culinary services at the base.”
The young private’s stammering voice cut in, “Yeah Sir...m-m-my bad. I was a cook...s-s-sorry.”
“No worries soldier, it’ll heal. Duncan, how is Major Beeson coping?”
Duncan put a finger up in the air, “Wait one.” After he switched the intercom to ensure their conversation would be private, he answered Cade’s question.
“It was inevitable with those bright lights inviting every dead Tom, Dick and Harry over for a bite. Camp Williams fell...it fell fast and hard. Like a big gal on roller-skates.”
Cade ignored Duncan’s gallows humor, it seemed to be his way of coping with the changed world--or not. “How many got out alive?”
“Put it this way-Beeson was prepared. The last thing that I saw was a long line of up-armored vehicles leaving the base. From the amount of muzzle flashes and explosions that I witnessed...they were givin the dead hell.”
“Sounds like textbook Beeson. As long as I’ve known the man he always has been prepared. He might have even been the very first Boy Scout and coined their motto.”
Duncan snickered over the intercom, “Changing the subject on ya Cade.” The tone in the old aviator’s voice suddenly turned serious. “I’ve got bad news and I’ve got good news, which one do ya want to hear first?”
“Dealers choice,” Cade answered.
“I always liked to hear the bad news first...leaves a fella a little somethin to look forward to.” Duncan took a second to check the instrumentation before continuing, “The reason that I bugged out of Portland when the crazies started biting folks was to get to my baby brothers place.”
Cade looked at Duncan from the co-pilots seat, “So I gather the bad news is we’re going on a side trip.” It was more of an acknowledgement than a question. “Correct me if I’m wrong, you said he lives near Salt Lake City...that’s a huge population center and I’ve made a point of avoiding those at all costs.”
“That’s not lost on me. Did you already forget the shit that we have been through together?”
“How can I forget the kids that went at the hands of the Nazi bikers? I sure as hell won’t forget how many undead were streaming out of Boise. That was a close call...and Salt Lake is several times more populated.”
“Logan’s place should be safe; it’s about fifty miles north of Salt Lake, up in the hill country. Also it’s smack dab in the middle of a lot of wooded acreage. From what he told me last, it’s made up of a series of semi-subterranean bunkers with good fields of fire, water, the works. The place wasn’t very elaborate the first time he gave me a tour.”
Cade broke in, “When was that?”
“The late nineties, he was getting ready for the Y2K bug before anyone in the lamestream media ever got wind of it. You and I both know how that one panned out.”
“Nothing but a whimper, but...a lot of people got rich off of the panic.” Cade said while he scanned the airspace on his side of the helicopter. He had stopped looking ground ward early into the flight, all of the dead bodies and walking dead made him fear for Brook and Raven. Lately a palpable sense of impending doom settled in his gut every time he thought about their wellbeing and whereabouts. “When were you there last, and can you find it from the air?”
“Late last year, and it’s much improved. Can I find it from the air? No telling. But rest assured I wo
n’t burn all of our remaining fuel searching. I guarantee we’ll have enough fuel to get to Colorado Springs.”
“I’m curious...after Y2K fizzled what prompted Logan to keep prepping?”
“Lately, my little brother feared that a looming financial crash was imminent. Not only is Logan a ‘prepper’ but he’s a Mormon also...so as you can imagine, he’s more than ready for any and all hardships. I’m sure he’s still in denial his favorite type of horror movie has become reality. No better reason than that for me to ride this thing out at his place.”
“What do you mean by, his favorite type of horror movie?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Duncan waved his hand in a dismissive gesture.
“Try me...” Cade hated not knowing all of the details going into a situation.
“Not only is my baby bro Logan a fan of the movies and such...” Duncan looked at Cade, and acting against everything his inner voice was telling him, continued his confession, “he was into the zombie walks or whatever they were called, and he was also belonged to a zombie apocalypse preparedness group.”
“You have got to be shitting me.”
“I wouldn’t shit my favorite turd.” Duncan cackled. “And it’s a good thing our friends in the back aren’t listening in. I’m afraid we would have a mutiny on our hands if they were privy to all of this. As far as Logan is concerned, he didn’t believe this zombie apocalypse was going to happen, it was all-just for fun-role playing type stuff...but I hope that he was taking notes.”
“Can’t wait to meet him,” Cade was envisioning a thirty-something, Dungeons and Dragon playing, comic book reading nerd.
“Grab my go-bag it’s next to the bulkhead there. Look in the top pouch there’s a small notebook, on the first page are the GPS coordinates to my bros place, punch in the lats and longs and well see if we can surprise him.”
The Black Hawk hit another patch of turbulent air; everyone was jostled in their seats.
While he keyed in the coordinates Cade continued the interrogation, “I hope this prepper sibling of yours doesn’t put a Stinger man portable up our tailpipe.”
Soldier On: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Trudge) Page 17
