Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

Instantly Glenda broke out in a cold sweat and along with it the nagging fear that as a result her makeup would smear and run.

  But it didn’t. Repeating the mantra calmed her down again. And the very real possibility of the flesh being ripped from her bones did not come to fruition.

  They scaled the uphill grade. A gaggle of unlikely road dogs staggering in a loose little knot. Nearing the hill’s apex, the sun at their backs threw shadows long and giant-like before disappearing on the opposite, downhill side, which Glenda tackled without pause.

  Even as her knees and ankles screamed out in pain during the arduous journey down the steep grade, she retained her poise.

  Be the dead.

  Halfway down the steep grade, moving only her eyes, Glenda looked up and saw that the Shell station where Louie liked to trot out his fake accent and preferred to have the Austin Healey serviced had caught fire and burned. Having suffered the same fate, a handful of cars, totally unrecognizable as to make or model, were settled on warped rims nearby. All that remained of the now windowless store and attached garage were four soot-covered cinderblock walls and a rollup door, its steel panels black with soot and wavy and still in the closed position. Clearly compromised by the high heat, the once laser-straight metal roof braces now sagged considerably in the center. And though it was still nearly a mile away, untouched yet illuminated by the waning sun, the red and yellow vacuum-formed sign rising up from one corner of the lot called to her like a beacon.

  The last dozen yards before the road again turned flat and smooth were especially killer, the deceleration taking a toll on her fifty-seven-year-old knees. Once she was out of the hill’s shadow and saw her own ever lengthening, she knew that dusk was imminent and with it an almost instantaneous drop of ten degrees or more in temperature. Fifty-five degrees she could handle. But at this elevation the temperature was likely to drop to the mid to low forties well before midnight.

  A bathrobe and some magazines over two layers of clothing made mostly from cotton wouldn’t be sufficient in the open to keep her warm against the elements. And once her teeth began chattering, she knew without a doubt she’d be the next meal for Van Man, Mombie, and her brood. So she began planning her great escape. And the gas station, though a shell of its former self, might be just what she needed.

  ***

  Glenda figured the last arduous mile took her at least thirty minutes to cover. Finally nearing the Shell station which occupied an acre or two on the north side of 39, something moving a hundred yards beyond the ditch, on the south side of the State Route, caught her eye.

  Amid the tall grass, she saw hunched backs. A tattered red plaid shirt and a pale white neck and shoulders contrasting sharply underneath. A dozen paces later her viewing angle changed and she realized what she was seeing was a trio of zombies feeding on a deer carcass. And what struck her at that moment was how involved they were whatever they focused on. In this case there was nothing more important than tearing and rending jagged strips of flesh and sinew and jamming it all two-handed into their mouths. The amount of blood sluicing down the chin and wetting the shirt of the creature facing in Glenda’s direction sent a sharp jolt down her spine. Then suddenly, perhaps smelling the fresh kill or just excited by the incessant movement, Glenda’s entire entourage stagger-stepped right and their hair-raising rasps commenced.

  In response to the sound, one right after the other, the feeding Zs rose up. Shorter to tallest. Left to right. Female, male, male. Their ages indeterminable due to their thoroughly blood-spattered faces.

  With the Shell sign in her left side vision, no longer sun-splashed but still beckoning her, Glenda made a slow pivot in that direction.

  In her right side peripheral she saw Mombie pause and cast a matronly—in Glenda’s mind at least—gaze over her shoulder across the two-lane.

  Be the dead.

  By the time the first shards of glass crunched under the soles of Glenda’s hikers, Mombie was out of sight, no doubt following in the footsteps of what most likely, in life, had been her offspring.

  Chapter 22

  Jamie materialized out of nowhere and stopped Cade in his tracks just outside the compound entrance. “Can I ask a favor of you?”

  He looked the young woman up and down from head to toe. Not in a creepy leering old guy kind of way. But more of a quick tactical observation. A surreptitious once-over to try and determine her motives before going any further.

  Her short dark hair was slicked back and, telegraphing the seriousness of the forthcoming question, her neck muscles were corded and the tanned skin around her ice blue eyes was taut. And as if her proposal had already been denied, she’d already adopted a defensive, arms crossed posture.

  There was a black carbine slung over her shoulder; holstered on one hip was a .40 caliber semiautomatic pistol. Tight against her thigh, in a makeshift scabbard held in place by a leather thong, was a two-foot-long tomahawk she claimed to have found in a rundown log cabin twenty miles north of the compound.

  That she’d disappeared, rambling the countryside alone for a week following the events at Bishop’s lake house, came as no surprise to Cade. Everyone was dealing with the recent losses in their own way. In fact, the chain of events leading up to her rescue were so hard to talk about for some of those involved that those who hadn’t been had taken to referring to those three days in August as simply ‘the incident.’ A phrase that, mercifully, didn’t immediately conjure up images of Logan and Gus’s bullet-riddled bodies. Nor did it dredge up awful sights and smells in the minds of the men who had exhumed Jordan’s maggot-infested body from the shallow grave at the quarry and reburied it up on the knoll with the others.

  Breaking the uneasy silence, Cade said, “Depends on the favor.”

  Cutting to the chase, Jamie blurted, “I want to go with you and Duncan. I don’t care where ... I just want to get away from here.”

  “Thought you took care of the wanderlust and cleared your mind on your week-long walkabout,” said Cade. He leaned against the entry. Crossed his arms and added, “I think you’re romanticizing what I do.”

  “I’m bored to death.”

  “Careful what you wish for.”

  There was a silence. Ten seconds. Fifteen.

  “I miss Logan. I think about him all the time.”

  Cade felt the handle rattle from inside and pushed off from the door. A tick later Chief exited, looked the two over and walked on without a word.

  “Is Chief going?”

  Cade shook his head. Said, “No.”

  “Lev?”

  Cade nodded. Said, “Yes.”

  “Daymon?”

  Again Cade nodded to the affirmative.

  “Your wife or Taryn?” asked Jamie. “Are they going?”

  For another ten seconds Cade said nothing. A shadow passed over the clearing and the air chilled suddenly as a bank of thunderheads blocked out the sun. He moved his head side-to-side. Said, “No. Brook won’t let Raven leave her side. She’s kind of a mama bear in that regard. And Wilson ... he needs Taryn. She wears the pants in that one there. I wouldn’t do that to the kid.”

  “So you’re telling me with a straight face that not one woman is going along on this outing.”

  Cade looked her in the eye. “Only you,” he said. “But you need to listen close and follow my every move. Can you agree to that?”

  Uncrossing her arms, Jamie smiled. In fact it was the first time he’d seen her pearly whites since she’d nudged Carson out of the helicopter and into the waiting arms of the dead.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I won’t slow you down.”

  Cade opened the door. Voices filtered past him. Young. Happy. So full of hope. He stepped part of the way inside and then turned back. “I know,” he said. “We leave at first light. Bring the tomahawk.”

  Cade stopped in the security room to greet Seth. The twenty-something was finally looking better now that the horrors of the incident were beginning to fade. And though he’d let his hair and bear
d grow unchecked since, his gray eyes were full of life and he carried himself with confidence. “Back in the saddle?” asked Cade.

  Nodding, Seth said, “Feels good to be back at the helm. How’s Heidi?”

  Absentmindedly poking a finger at the single bulb dangling near his head, Cade said, “Since all of the shrinks in the world probably became Z food on day one, I think some R and R to get her mind off of things would be a good start. Especially seeing how ever since the incident her obsession with hailing the survivors on Logan’s list has gotten out of hand.”

  Seth looked away from the closed circuit monitor, nodded, and then returned his gaze there for a moment.

  Cade went on, “Though I’m no shrink ... short of drug therapy, I think forcing her into some kind of routine topside would be ideal. The daylight and fresh air would do wonders for her. I’m sure of that. Might even reset her internal clock so she can get some regular rack time.” Cade bobbed his head around the gently oscillating light bulb like a sparring fighter, grew tired of that and grabbed the coffee pot and filled a Styrofoam cup.

  “Quiet up at the road,” proffered Seth.

  There was a short silence as Cade stared at the monitor while mulling over the looming talk with Brook. Finally, ignoring the small talk about rotters at the road, he finished his thought and said, “Nothing any of us can do to help Heidi. Her and Daymon ... they’re going to have to work through it themselves.” He drank the coffee down an inch. Arched an eyebrow and hoisted the cup as if offering the younger man a toast. “Good brew.”

  Seth shot Cade a thumbs up then leaned back in the rolling chair and returned his attention to the goings on topside.

  Chapter 23

  There was a knock on the door and Brook heard Cade announce himself. So she rose and crossed the container, feeling the plywood cold against her feet through her well-worn socks. She let him in and took his carbine and placed it by the door. Retraced her steps and sat on the bunk in the same warm spot she’d just vacated. She smoothed the sheet next to her and patted the mattress, beckoning him to sit.

  Instead Cade pulled over a folding chair, spun it around and sat facing her. He had already adopted the familiar premission hard set to his jaw. His body crackled with an unseen energy and in his dark eyes Brook saw a steely determination that told her he was already committed. Then, pressing his chest against the seatback, he relaxed and removed his cap. Over the next thirty minutes he laid all the cards out on the table. Revealed every little detail he was privy to.

  When he was finished there was a brooding silence. The shadows in the room seemed to crowd in on them.

  Seeing in Brook’s brown eyes the ongoing wrestling match, Cade moved over and claimed the smooth spot on the bunk. He held her and said, “It’ll work out. It always does.”

  “Why does Nash have such a hold on you?”

  “I just put you and me in her shoes. Then I figured Raven into the equation ...”

  Like the drop in barometric pressure ahead of a looming thunder storm, for three weeks Brook had felt this one building. She knew he’d be drawn back in to the teams sooner or later. That he’d already accepted before consulting her hurt a little but came as no surprise. Even the zombie apocalypse had failed to tame the only child in him. Nor temper the unbridled patriotism residing in his heart.

  She had listened closely, noting the details, especially the long distance between the compound and his objective. But what troubled Brook most was the high population center he’d likely be getting to know up close and personal during the impromptu mission.

  But he hadn’t finished with that. There had been good news and he’d saved it for last. And what he told her stole her breath away. It was definitely, as he’d put it, a game changer that made his departure that much easier to swallow. It was the kind of news that all of them needed right now, but she couldn’t share. But when she finally could, the revelation would serve to trump the low current tingle of despair omnipresent since the dead inherited the earth.

  As if the bombshell he’d just dropped in the tiny room had all of the importance of picking out new furniture, Cade rose, arched a brow, and said, “The venison should be done by now.”

  “Go by the Kids’ quarters and send Raven back here. I want to break it to her first. So she can digest it. Maybe she’ll wind down some between now and lights out.”

  “Will do.” Cade hinged at the waist and kissed Brook on the mouth, gently.

  She drew him in and reciprocated. Then her tongue entered his mouth and she wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed harder. There was a thinly veiled desperation on her end. Abruptly she leaned back and her eyes locked with his and she delivered the look he knew all too well. It said: You come back to me, Cade Grayson.

  “I will,” he answered intuitively. Drawing away, he added confidently, “No doubt about it.”

  After dragging the back of her hand across her lips, Brook placed a finger on his lips. She traced a lazy circle on his cheek and holding his gaze, said, “We will resume this later ... right where we left off.”

  Cade fetched his carbine from its spot near the door, nodded and smiled a wicked smile that said: I’m game. Without another word he was out the door.

  Before the door latch clicked she was on her back and staring up at the bottom of the pale yellow mattress and the black springs cutting crisscross patterns into it.

  Bad cop time, she thought. Going through her mind was how much to tell Raven.

  Chapter 24

  Glenda peered through the empty door pane. There were no dead snooping around inside the burned-out convenience store. She ducked under the push bar and all alone walked the aisles of twisted shelving, being careful to avoid disturbing the imploded cans littering the floor.

  Besides the now windowless and hollow hulks of a half-dozen reachin coolers, the only other recognizable item in the fifty by fifty square was the waist-high counter to her left. On that counter was a misshapen block of plastic that she presumed to be the last worldly remains of the cash register. A skeletal framework rose above the molten mess; every last pack of cigarettes once nestled in the warped slots there were gone—previously looted or burned in the fire. She spun a slow circle. Everything was black. Soot-covered. She gazed out the southern facing openings that once held massive sheets of plate glass. Across the road, Van Man, Mombie, her kids, and the other zombies were hunched over and barely visible, no doubt still plunging their hands and faces in and out of the big buck’s chest cavity.

  Looking up between the sagging roof joists, Glenda sized up the forming clouds and decided what was left of the roof would provide scant cover if it rained.

  And so, treading lightly, she shuffled to the door leading to the garage and was happy to find it unlocked. She went up on her toes and looked into the square of glass embedded in its center and saw nothing but her own reflection staring back from the mirror-like black portal. So she withdrew a pair of the knitting needles and, with one clutched firmly in each hand, dipped her shoulder and nudged the sooty door open.

  There was no squeal or squeak of bound hinges as she had expected. Instead, as if some byproduct from the fire had found its way into the moving parts, the steel door swung inward quiet as a passing shadow.

  Steeling herself for an attack, she peered in. One eye first. The needle held high and following her gaze.

  Like the soot-covered window, it was pitch black inside and strangely enough the garage’s interior smelled nothing like the rest of the building. Apparently the combination of the steel door and cement wall between the convenience store and garage had acted as a kind of fire break.

  Standing on the threshold, Glenda looked up and saw dark clouds moving in fast overhead. Rain, she thought. Then she peered back into the gloom and thought: Better than a case of pneumonia.

  Suddenly, further validating that decision, she heard a low moan that snapped the hairs on the back of her neck to attention. It had come from behind her. Thankfully, from someplace outside of th
e building. So, bracing herself with one hand gripping the jamb, she leaned back over the threshold and craned her head right ever so slowly.

  Standing outside, its distended gut pressing against the locked double doors she’d just ducked through, and clutching the horizontal push rail two-handed, was what looked like a walking piece of charcoal with curls of burnt dermis ringing the sunken empty sockets where its eyes used to reside. The abomination continued with the dry peal and started shaking the loose doors, the resulting rattle sounding like a passing freight train.

  With a cold pang of panic fluttering in her stomach, Glenda gaped at the thing, wondering how in the hell it was able to make the sound if its insides looked anything like its outside. Then she noticed movement over the moaning briquette’s shoulder. A hundred yards away, on the other side of SR-39, seven heads popped up and, like a troop of demonic prairie dogs, seven blood-streaked faces swiveled around and stared right at her. Then the seven emaciated forms rose together, slowly, and began a steady march in her direction.

  After watching the animated corpses negotiate the ditch and step onto the eastbound lane, Glenda imagined—no, prayed for—a kind-eyed cowboy to come along in an eighteen wheeler and throw their pale forms airborne before running them over and grinding their cold rancid flesh into a fine paste. Then, as her split-second fantasy unfolded, she heard an imaginary pneumatic hiss and a crunching of gears as the phantom rig circled back around to save her.

  But that was far from happening. She was still alone and in real trouble. The nerve-racking noise stopped abruptly as Kingsford let go of the door, hinged slowly at the waist, and then fell face first onto the carpet of glass shards littering the store entry no doubt usually graced with some kind of a Welcome mat.

  But you’re not welcome here, she thought. And while the crispy zombie got to its knees, groping the air with stubs for fingers, she saw that the others were nearing the State Route’s dashed centerline.