Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Ghosts:

  Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

  By

  Shawn Chesser

  KINDLE EDITION

  ***

  Ghosts:

  Surviving the Zombie

  Apocalypse

  Copyright 2015

  Shawn Chesser

  KINDLE Edition

  Kindle Edition, License

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please go and buy your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to real persons, events, or places are purely coincidental; any references to actual places, people, or brands are fictitious. All rights reserved.

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  ***

  Acknowledgements

  For Maureen, Raven, and Caden ... I couldn’t have done this without all of your support. Thanks to all of our Military, LE and first responders for your service. To the people in the U.K. who have been in touch, thanks for reading! Lieutenant Colonel Michael Offe, thanks for your service as well as your friendship. Shannon Walters, my top Eagle Eye, thank you! Larry Eckels, thank you for helping me with some of the military technical stuff in Ghosts. Any missing facts or errors are solely my fault. Justin Miller ... “Kindness” ... priceless! Beta readers, you rock, and you know who you are. Thanks George Romero for introducing me to zombies. Steve H., thanks for listening. All of my friends and fellows at S@N and Monday Old St. David’s, thanks as well. Lastly, thanks to Bill W. and Dr. Bob … you helped make this possible. I am going to sign up for another 24.

  Special thanks to John O’Brien, Mark Tufo, Joe McKinney, Craig DiLouie, Armand Rosamilia, Heath Stallcup, James Cook, Saul Tanpepper, Eric A. Shelman, and David P. Forsyth. I truly appreciate your continued friendship and always invaluable advice. Thanks to Jason Swarr and Straight 8 Custom Photography for the awesome cover. Once again, extra special thanks to Monique Happy for her work editing “Ghosts.” Mo, as always, you came through like a champ! Working with you has been a dream come true and nothing but a pleasure. If I have accidentally left anyone out ... I am truly sorry.

  ***

  Edited by Monique Happy Editorial Services

  www.indiebookauthors.com

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Prologue

  Trying to become one with the massive Douglas fir, Raven squatted and pressed her back hard against its gnarled trunk. With the unpleasant sensation of coarse bark grating her skin through the thin tee shirt she’d thrown on during her hasty retreat from the compound, she strained mightily in the dark to hear anything over her heartbeat and labored breathing.

  Finally, after a few seconds spent listening and probing the dark with her eyes for any signs of movement from the direction of the footpath leading to the grass-covered clearing, she heard twigs cracking and the hollow thuds of plodding, unsteady footsteps.

  Then, seemingly from all around, she heard the ubiquitous rasps—like dried cornstalks rustling in a stiff breeze—of determined first turns on the hunt.

  Stay here, her mom had hissed a beat prior to melting into the night, clad only in white panties and bra, minus the usual stubby carbine which was still in two pieces, an integral part having been dropped and lost in the deep grass hours earlier. In its place, clutched in Brook’s fist as she left to become the hunter, was the black pistol she had dragged hastily from the holster still belted to the pair of pants she’d been forced to leave without.

  Goose flesh welled up on Raven’s forearms and rippled down her sides. She felt the rapid-fire thump, thump, thump of her heart threatening to leap from her ribcage. Her ears burned hot and her body heaved with each drawn breath.

  Focusing on the moonlight-dappled game trail a dozen feet to her fore, she pulled her knees to her chest, held her breath, and strained to hear the sounds of the living: hard breathing, whispered words, a volley of gunfire; anything but the screams of the dying to let her know she was not alone.

  But the latter came first. A shrill keening wail that set the hairs on her arms on end. It ceased after just a few seconds, but the echo careening through the forest lasted nearly as long as the shiver-inducing real thing.

  Let Sasha have your rifle, her dad had said before leaving the Army base in Colorado. We’ll get you another after we get to the Eden compound, Mom had said. Famous last words thought the twelve-year-old, her barely clothed body throwing an involuntary shiver. Lot of good it did her, thought Raven, fairly certain that the death knell had belonged to Sasha.

  She couldn’t fathom how things had gone so wrong so quick. One second she was asleep, warm under the covers, and the next she was being yanked from her bed in the dark by a pair of frantically grabbing hands. Then the light snapped on and her mom was ushering her out and grabbing the weapon. Strangely, as she sat nestled against the tree trunk, she couldn’t remember her mom saying a word, merely pointing to what was happening outside.

  Gunshots in the dark snapped Raven back to the situation at hand. Three shots, she thought. Sounds of the living. But the gunfire that she’d wished for had only summoned more dead from the surrounding woods. Oblivious of the trail, they crashed through the underbrush moaning, hissing, their numb bodies snapping off low hanging branches, the sharp reports making Raven jump.

  Then her mom returned, two blurs of white cotton demarcating the tanned skin, black mane flowing in her wake
. The pistol was thrust out in front with orange licks of flame lancing from the muzzle, the sharp reports quickly swallowed up by the nearby foliage.

  The hollow thuds of infected bodies hitting the forest floor were suddenly interrupted by a creak of metal on metal that carried on the night air from the compound. Looking that way, Raven picked up indistinct male voices, giving her a modicum of hope. But the scene that she saw when she shifted her gaze back to her mom crushed it instantly. Took the air from her lungs. Gasping, she saw her mom being yanked to the ground. Clawlike hands were twisted into her hair and more were reaching from the gloom, the dirt-and blood-crusted nails carving a jagged road map on her smooth skin.

  The pistol bucked twice then suddenly went silent as a dozen shadowy forms piled on. Even in the dark Raven could see that her mom was doomed. Caught between the overwhelming urge to run into the fray unarmed or bolt and save her own life, discretion won out and she chose the latter.

  With the metallic tang of freshly spilt blood hitting her nose, Raven witnessed the woman who had brought her into the world fighting for her life. Lashing out. Blows landed on decayed flesh to no effect. The struggle lasted for a second or two until finally, mouth locked into a silent O, all of the fight left Brook’s petite form. As the dead rent flesh from her blanching extremities, her heart continued beating, sending blood sluicing from a gaping neck wound. It pooled around her head, black like a crow’s wing, then shiny runners broke free and ran downslope, crisscrossing the dirt path in front of Raven’s curled toes.

  Terrified, she stood to run and was instantly tripped up on a knotty root angling away from the trunk. Eyes still fixed on her escape route, she went down like a base runner stealing second, face first, arms outstretched to cushion her fall.

  While still airborne two things happened simultaneously. She screamed, shrill and high-pitched with a lot of lung behind it. Then, as quickly as it erupted from her chest, the soul-wrenching sound was cut off by what seemed like a kid’s entire sandbox worth of dirt, pebbles, and pine needles, as gravity brought her back to earth face first.

  Through her side vision she saw the monsters’ heads turn in unison. With steaming entrails in their greedy clutches, they rose together and began a slow trudge in her direction.

  Her second scream snapped her awake and, judging from the distinct smell of pitted metal and slight dampness permeating the air, she knew instantly that she was safe and secure in her new subterranean home.

  In the next instant she was awash with gratitude and realized the hand clamped over her mouth stifling the scream belonged to someone with her best interests at heart. There were no dead piling on top of her prone form. No gnashing teeth rending meat from her bones. No wiry fingers scooping her innards out in preparation of a feast. Just a warm body with a familiar scent who whispered six soothing words: “It was just a bad dream.”

  The hand withdrew and Raven rasped, “Huh, uh. That was a full on nightmare, Mom.”

  There was a moment of silence.

  “And in it you died.”

  “But I’m here now. Alive and well,” said Brook in the dark. She kissed Raven on the forehead then added, “Shhh. Do you hear that?”

  But before Raven could reply, two closely placed clicks echoed off the ceiling. Then the stark white radiance from the single sixty-watt bulb blinded her. Eyes squeezed to slits, she shook her head. Answered, “No. What am I supposed to be hearing?”

  “I guess it’s more of a feeling right now. Get dressed,” Brook requested. “And make it quick.”

  Nothing about this sounded good to Raven considering that the still lingering nightmare had commenced similarly. Fully convinced she was awake and had not been thrown back into the horrific scenario conjured up by her subconscious, she lowered herself from the bunk. As she pulled on a tee and a pair of jeans, her head tilted a degree to the side and, eyes still narrowed, she queried Brook: “When do I get my gun back?”

  With one arm poked halfway through a sleeve and the other probing for an opening, Brook paused and looked at Raven one-eyed through the shirt’s stretched out neck. “Why?” she asked before forcing her head completely through.

  “I’d feel more comfortable. That’s all.” Raven looked away and finished dressing, lacing up a pair of boots left behind by the family that used to call this end of the compound home.

  Brook said, “I’m sure we’ll find something from the quarry that fits Sasha better. Then you’ll get yours back.”

  Raven smiled then started the overhead bulb swaying, which sent the shadows against the wall undulating in random directions.

  There were footsteps on the wood flooring outside and then a beat of silence which was followed by a light rap on the metal door.

  Taking the two pieces of her disassembled rifle in hand, Brook rose and said, “Who is it?”

  “Chief,” came the sonorous reply.

  Seeing that Raven was fully dressed, she opened the door and found herself eye-to-eye with the stocky Native American who went by Chief. Not a rank or noble distinction. He had made that clear when they first met. Just a nickname some of the inmates with like ancestry had attached to him during a long stint in a correctional facility in California. And though he was Jake—a derogatory name given the correctional officers in charge of the Native Americans’ wing in the prison—no matter how hard he tried to distance himself from the nickname it was always there. With a nod, Brook said, “What’s up, Chief?”

  “There’s a chopper inbound,” he said slowly, in a soft voice that reminded Brook of how mall Santas talked to kids—only Chief’s words were wholly believable. No underlying hint of subterfuge whatsoever. At that moment she decided the man held honor in high regard. Kind of reminded her of a much older version of her husband, Cade. Two decades older—at least. “I felt its vibration in my bones,” she said. “Spent a lot of time around them lately.”

  Before Chief could respond, Raven squealed, “Daddy!” and bolted past both of them, the nightmare completely forgotten.

  Grinning at the display of youthful enthusiasm, Chief said, “We better catch up with her.”

  Agreeing with a nod, Brook set her disassembled carbine aside and scooped up her gun belt with the compact Glock 19 snugged in its holster. Under Chief’s watchful eye she drew the semiautomatic and aimed it at the floor. Checked the magazine, rammed it home, and cracked the slide to confirm that one was in the pipe as Cade was wont to say. “Good to go.” She holstered the pistol, belted the drop-down rig around her waist, and secured the holster to her right thigh.

  As Brook stepped into the corridor, the sound of rotor blades hammering the night air reached her ears. Louder still, footsteps and excited voices—male and female—bounced around the confined corridors.

  She squeezed through the foyer and, storming out of the compound, instantly ran into the cool blast of rotor wash and found herself blinded by the brilliant white landing lights of the inbound DHS Black Hawk. Instinctively raising a hand to ward off flying debris and squinting hard against the blinding light, she pulled Raven close and watched the trio of younger survivors, in various stages of undress, form up next to her.

  “They’re back,” Wilson shouted excitedly over the buffeting winds pushing ahead of the flaring chopper.

  Raven craned towards her mom and hollered, “Is Daddy in there?”

  “I’m sure he is,” replied Brook. She thought: He better be, then glanced at her watch, which read 0125, and wondered what she’d be doing at this hour back in Portland if the Omega virus hadn’t torn her small family’s world asunder. Probably, she conceded, shushing a bunch of pre-teen girls who didn’t understand the sleep component of sleepover. Far better than standing here, gut churning, hoping to see her husband emerge from the settling bird whole and unscathed, both physically and mentally. And seeing as how her trained eye told her that some of the other survivors here at the compound were exhibiting obvious signs of PTSD, one of her biggest fears was Cade coming home broken after one of these missio
ns. Succumbing to depression and shutting everyone out. Or, the opposite, growing angry and lashing out at the world or loved ones, or—God forbid—both.

  As the helicopter touched down it bounced minimally and rolled forward a couple of feet before the turbine whine dropped from a Banshee-like wail and the rotors began slowing noticeably. Clearly, thought Brook, the pilot, whom she barely knew, was still grappling with the finer points of flying the big noisy machine. Stomach in knots, she saw the helicopter’s side door slide open and a slim woman whom she’d never seen before jump to the ground, crouch low, and hustle away from the spinning rotors.

  Her anticipation mounting, Brook shifted her gaze back to the chopper and saw Daymon jump from the cabin, crossbow in one hand, and a stubby black shotgun in the other. Close behind him, two more camouflage-clad forms exited the craft. The first, brandishing a black carbine, she recognized as the former soldier named Lev. The second form was silhouetted against the airframe by the landing lights. She stared hard at the wavering form and concluded the build was all wrong. Whoever it was looked to be about Cade’s height, but twenty or thirty pounds heavier. Then the man took a few steps forward, head bowed under the whirring rotors, and was illuminated fully by the glare of the landing lights. It wasn’t Cade. Of that Brook was positive. She shook her head side-to-side as the completely bald and goateed stranger strode through the shin-high grass, following tentatively in Lev’s footsteps.

  Brook felt a tugging on her shirt and looked down at Raven and read worry in her eyes.

  “Where’s Dad?” she asked, her words choked and raspy.

  Before Brook could answer, Raven’s face blanched and a coughing fit ensued.

  Casting furtive glances towards the Black Hawk, Brook gently patted Raven’s back until the convulsions ceased. “You going to be OK?”

  Nodding, Raven wiped a thin rope of drool from her lip. Then dried the back of her hand on the front of her shirt. “Probably just allergies,” she insisted. To which Brook felt inclined to agree seeing as how Utah was probably host to a thousand different types of pollen.

  A minute after the engine noise lessened, the Black Hawk’s rotor blades became discernable as four separate spokes and began to droop noticeably. Finally the turbine whine died out completely, leaving the clearing in a crushing vacuum of silence.