Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Daymon said nothing as he carefully unfolded the scrap of paper Cade had given him and began punching in the new string of GPS numbers. A tick later, sensing the lack of forward movement, he looked up from his task and said, “Old Man. You’re sandblasting the poor guy.”

  Releasing his grip on the cool smooth metal of the flask, Duncan removed his left hand—which seemed to be acting of its own volition—from his cargo pocket and rested it on the controls. With the craving momentarily vanquished, he flicked a quick salute at the operator and nudged the stick forward.

  A few seconds after leaving Cade alone in the Utah desert, Daymon read the message scrawled below the GPS coordinates. “Looks like we’re heading to a base called Bastion. Cade wrote here that you need to talk to a Commander Beeson. Says he agreed to have his men do a remote-field once-over on the helicopter before we go back to the compound.”

  Chuckling, Lev said, “PMS.”

  Arms still crossed over her chest and crushing the empty fabric sleeves where she should be feeling the reassuring hard edges of her three fully loaded magazines, Jamie shot Lev a death look and mouthed, “Don’t go there.”

  Chapter 32

  Cade watched the Black Hawk drop below the canyon rim and thunder off to the east, hugging the undulating contours of the land until it was a tiny speck. Then, as if a switch had been thrown, the crisp morning air suddenly lost its edge. In the next half beat Cade’s exposed skin and gear started to soak up the heat from the rising sun. In the latter half of the beat he felt a fat bead of sweat roll from under his helmet and down his spine.

  With the rotor noise still banging off the ancient arroyos and sandstone mesas, he continued squinting into the sun until the helicopter and its trailing shadow was lost altogether in the ground clutter. A few more seconds slipped into the past and a heavy silence fell over his elevated perch. He swiveled his head, taking inventory of his surroundings at all points of the compass. Behind him nothing stood taller than the exposed rocks and ground-hugging sage and tumbleweeds he’d already surveyed from the helo. To his right a tiny lizard of some sort scurried from the flat stone where it had been basking in the sun to another that offered a little more in the way of concealment. Farther off to the right, beyond his newfound friend’s hiding place, the mesa he was on continued west for a quarter mile before dropping off into what he presumed was the canyon with State Route 6 cut through it south to north before meandering on a northeast tack. And down there on the road somewhere were the trashed cars and festering bodies of the Green River bandits that he and Brook and the Kids had dealt with handily. Dead ahead was the Green River basin, where ridges and veins cut by ancient runoff had left the sandstone features looking like giant overlapping ochre-colored waves. And less than a mile as the crow flies, off to his left, was the newly created ghost town of Green River.

  Thankful the sun wasn’t as brutal now as it had been the first time through these parts, he removed his helmet and glasses. Tapped the excess dust from both and fished a microfiber cloth from a pocket and first gave his glasses a thorough wipe. Then he cleaned the optics on his M4 beginning with the flip away 3x magnifier and finishing with the EOTech holographic sight perched atop the carbine’s upper rail.

  Finished, he tucked away the cloth and shrugged off his hydration pack then the ruck. Rifled through a side pocket and extracted his armored Bushnells and the satellite phone which he’d left locked and powered on. He keyed in the code and watched the screen come to life. After noting the time and seeing there were no messages or missed calls, he found Beeson’s number and sent a lengthy text message. After sending the message he thumbed the screen dark and slipped the phone into a cargo pocket where it’d be easier to access. No turning back now, he thought as he snugged the binoculars tight and began glassing the city and valley below.

  Off in the distance, south by east, he recognized the tablelike rock formation and I-70 which ran through it west to east towards the FOB Bastion and Mack, Colorado, ninety miles distant. And in the shadow where the blacktop cut through the red rock formation he spotted someone staring back at him through an impossibly large pair of field glasses. A staring match ensued until the camo-clad soldier dropped the glasses from her face and he recognized the sergeant named Andreason whom he’d met previously at Bastion. She was leaning over the hood of a desert tan Humvee sporting a pair of whip antennas reaching a dozen feet into the sky. She was accompanied by five heavily armed soldiers and nearby was another Humvee with a turret mounted .50 caliber heavy machine gun, one of the five soldiers manning it.

  Message received, thought Cade. Don’t fuck with Beeson. The town of Green River now belongs to the Big Green Machine.

  With nothing else to do but sweat it out and wait, both literally and figuratively, he leaned back on his ruck and fixed his gaze dead ahead.

  Chapter 33

  Still a fair distance out, Duncan saw that what was once just a single strip facility perched atop a desert mesa was now a bustling base servicing fixed and rotor wing craft. A handful of static aircraft sat in a neat line near a row of windowless hangers, all identical and rust-streaked and abutting the north fence line. A safe distance from the flight line were four fuel bowsers, and going by the logos painted on the side of the rounded tanks, two of them hailed from Grand Junction Regional Airport a few miles to the east.

  All around the base, running parallel with the hurricane fencing, a deep moat-like trench roughly the width of a Humvee had been carved into the red soil. As Duncan reduced altitude and airspeed, more details emerged. First impressions went out the door as it became evident the trenches were not empty. He saw dead eyes staring up and pale hands clawing at the smooth walls. In places he saw rotters that had managed to crawl out and were either still clutching the fence or in the process of being culled by roaming pairs of armed soldiers.

  East of the airstrip Duncan saw a pair of armored personnel carriers reentering the base over a mobile bridge system, its retractable apparatus currently deployed across the trench.

  Bringing the Black Hawk low and slow over the west fence line, Duncan saw the welcoming party at the same instant Lev said into the comms, “We’ve got company. And it looks like they’re meeting us at the flight line locked and loaded.”

  “Couple of Humvees is all,” added Daymon from the left seat.

  “Lev’s right,” conceded Duncan, “Those things sticking out of the turrets are fifty cals with shells big enough to knock us out of the sky.”

  Jamie said, “They’re just like the Humvee at the compound.”

  “Only they’re here and they’re manned and that makes them twenty times as deadly,” stated Lev.

  “We’ll be OK,” Duncan said. “Cade wouldn’t send us into an ambush.”

  A hush fell over the cabin as the Black Hawk entered the airspace over the base.

  Just past the fence line, sitting idle near the row of squat hangars, was a matte black twin rotor Osprey and, as Duncan applied left pedal and leveled upon seeing a vacant landing pad, he also spotted a Ghost Hawk helicopter crouched low on the bigger aircraft’s lee side, its black skin and angular lines adding to its already menacing appearance.

  The static aircraft slid by on the left and Duncan shifted his gaze forward and saw a person on the ground waving him in. Following the directions doled out silently via the day-glo batons clutched in the helmeted figure’s gloved hands, he set the helicopter down parallel to the Ghost Hawk atop a square of blacktop marked out as a landing pad. A beat later the pair of Humvees jammed to a quick stop nearby. But the passengers remained inside with the doors closed.

  By the time Duncan had powered the DHS bird down and the rotor chop diminished he saw why nobody was coming to greet them. Nearby, the Ghost Hawk’s rotors were making lazy revolutions. Seconds later, with no discernable sound entering the Black Hawk’s cabin or cockpit, the stealth helo’s overhead disc was nearly a black blur.

  Duncan thought it a strange sight. Dust kicking up but no rotor sound nor t
he usual heat mirage produced by hardworking turbine engines. There was, however, a strange harmonic vibration he could feel deep in his chest. Before long the silent black craft was hovering a dozen feet over the tarmac. In the next couple of seconds the wheels disappeared inside the airframe and, concealing them, a triangular black panel motored into place.

  Duncan imagined himself at the controls as he watched the helicopter ascend and glide slowly over the hangers and pick up speed, its prism-shaped nose aimed at Grand Junction and the rambling Rocky Mountain range a hundred miles distant.

  Steeling himself for the upcoming meeting with base commander Major Greg Beeson, Duncan unbuckled and removed his flight helmet, setting it on the console between the seats. Then, with the need to see clearly more important than keeping his ego intact, he removed the yellow and orange oddities, gave both lenses a meticulous cleaning, and squared them away on his face.

  Stating the obvious, Daymon said, “We’re keeping the guys with the gun trucks waiting.”

  Flask in hand, Duncan unscrewed the lid with a flick of his thumb. He growled, “Let ‘em wait,” and took a prolonged drink just as the behemoth tiltrotor’s engines roared to life and, slowly at first, the trio of composite blades making up each prop began chopping the air overhead. In the span of a few seconds the revolutions increased and a hurricane-like roar was picking up outside the Black Hawk.

  “That’s what our welcoming party was waiting for,” said Lev, pressing his face against the cabin glass while pointing out more of the obvious.

  Barely two minutes after starting its engines and while churning up twin clouds of blowing gravel and ochre dust, the matte black Osprey rose into the air with a thunderous fury.

  “Like night and day,” stated Jamie.

  More of the obvious, thought Duncan, taking another swallow from the flask.

  Once at hover, a hundred feet above the flight line, the twin teardrop nacelles swiveled slowly forward, increasing the engine roar tenfold.

  In one moment, as Duncan watched through the overhead cockpit glass, the aircraft above and now to the fore of the Black Hawk seemed to go weightless. In the next, the rotors became forward facing propellers and the VTOL (Vertical Takeoff and Landing) bird was nose down and charging south by southeast, the rising sun glinting sharply off the port side windows.

  As the dust slowly settled, Duncan continued watching the Osprey as it rapidly closed with the Ghost Hawk. In a few seconds the two silhouettes had grown so small he had to squint to see them. He was just about to look away when he detected a flare of light. In the next second he saw the two aircraft make what he thought was a drastic change in course.

  “Binocs,” said Duncan, holding a hand out, eyes locked on the two black dots.

  By the time Lev had handed his Steiners forward, a gray-haired man in faded MultiCam patterned fatigues had leapt out of the lead Humvee and was striding purposefully towards the Black Hawk.

  “What do you see?” asked Daymon, squinting at the retreating aircraft.

  “I see some sleight of hand. And now I know why Cade had us drop him off alone where we did.”

  “At least where he is there’s almost no chance of him encountering Zs or humans,” proffered Jamie.

  “He’ll have what ... an hour or so with nothing but tumbleweeds and geckos for company,” added Daymon, removing his flight helmet. “And I hope he gets sunburned after the crap he just pulled on us all.”

  Out of the corner of his eye Duncan saw the approaching soldier wave and loop around to his side. Acting as if he hadn’t seen the greeting, he said, “We served our purpose. Sometimes, that’s just how it’s got to be. Me ... I’m getting too old to be tear-assing all over the country anyway. I just want to kick back and count off the days and leave the fighting—” he looked away from the two in the cabin and fixed his gaze on Daymon sitting next to him “—and the flying to you younger folk.”

  “I’m down. And I’ve been poring over the manual,” Daymon said. “Just give me the stick time.”

  There was a knock on the Plexiglas and when Duncan looked over his shoulder and saw the man’s name on the tape on his breast and the black oak leaf front and center on his fatigue blouse, everything fell into place. He opened the door and said, “Major Beeson, pleased to finally meet you. Cade’s had nothing but good to say about you.”

  “Bullshit,” Beeson growled. “Cade is a man of few words. And if he were spending some of ‘em, he sure as hell wouldn’t be puffing up my old carcass.”

  Daymon leaned forward and ran a hand through his stubby dreads. Then he said matter-of-factly, “Don’t mind Duncan. He’s been drinking.”

  Staring daggers at the dreadlocked tattletale, Duncan drawled, “Now that’s bullshit. I better get my hip waders on ... it’s getting deep in here.”

  Interrupting the spat, Beeson said jokingly, “Pleased to meet you, Duncan. Why don’t you give the keys to Sergeant Clare there and come along with me. We’ll get some coffee and while my men give your bird a checkup I’ll give you the nickel tour. How’s that sound?”

  Duncan nodded. Shrugged off his flight harness and felt his hand brush the hard outline of the flask. Empty, he thought. And hours to kill. But he said, “Show us around? Sure. I want to thank you for having this old girl in for her physical. Lord knows she needs it. And yes, I could use some fresh brewed pick-me-up.”

  Daymon found himself staring at the razor wire atop the perimeter fencing. Subconsciously he slipped a hand under his shirt and rubbed the vertical scars on his chest and had a sudden and brief flashback to the pit of death outside of Schriever. How he’d wallowed amongst the corpses, not all of them fully dead. He imagined hearing the ghostly moans again. How they’d filtered up between the cold and intertwined rigor-affected limbs. A shiver ran up his spine. Finally he looked at the base commander and nodded. Nothing else to do out here in the middle of nowhere, he reasoned as he opened the door and a stiff cross breeze polluted the cabin with a super-concentrated blast of carrion-infused hot air.

  Voicing her displeasure at the stench and clamping a hand over her nose, Jamie yanked open the side door and piled out, coughing and dry heaving.

  Lev grabbed their rifles and Duncan’s shotgun and met the others on the tarmac.

  Once everyone was out of the helicopter and assembled, Beeson said, “Follow me,” turned on his heel and stalked away with the comportment only a lifetime in the military could instill in a person.

  Chapter 34

  Brook awoke with a start. The nightmare in which she and Cade had been starring had been so vivid and hyper-realistic that for an instant the pitch black environs of her quarters had her fooled into thinking her weapon had failed and they were seconds away from becoming zombie food. In her confused state she called out for Cade and Raven, which in turn caused the diminutive twelve-year-old who had recently snuck back in to the Grayson quarters to sit up so fast the thin sheet covering her went flying. In the next instant Raven was lashing out in the inky black, fighting anything and everything, real and imagined. Her left fist found something soft with a sharp ridge running down its center. Her other hand, also curled into a fist, struck one of the vertical bars attaching the upper bunk to the lower, causing her to call out for Mom and Dad.

  Suddenly Brook remembered where she was and the realization that she was being pummeled dawned on her. Smarting from a perfectly placed blow to her spine, she rolled to the right and wrapped a sobbing Raven up in a bear hug.

  Face to face with her only offspring and most important person in the world, Brook shushed her and whispered, “It was only a bad dream, sweetie.”

  Raven said nothing. She was in the midst of a full blown asthma attack. The labored breathing and wheezing continued for a minute or two before Brook’s soothing words and motherly caresses paid off and Raven found her breath.

  “I’m alright, Mom,” she said, her coiled muscles relaxing. “And I’m sorry I hit you. I thought they were getting me.”

  “Me too,”
Brook said. “When did you sneak back in?”

  Raven mumbled something incoherent.

  Brook shrugged and rose from the bunk. Found the string and clicked the single bulb to life. She pulled Raven close and kissed her forehead. Then the details of her own nightmare came flooding back. In it she and Cade had somehow lost Raven and were frantically searching a vast warehouse with dozens of gloomy never-ending halls and hundreds of closed doors with ravenous Zs lurking behind every one. She recalled red and green laser beams lancing from their weapons and monsters falling everywhere as they continued on, and on, and on, to no avail.

  Propped up on one elbow, Raven chewed her lip and asked, “What does it mean?”

  Brook thought: A premonition I don’t want to interpret. She said, “Probably nothing.” Then her brow furrowed and her gaze went to a widening bloom of crimson on the pillow. “You’re cut.”

  Raven’s wheezing returned immediately. And though she had grown accustomed to the sight of bloodied bodies—walking or not—a drop of her own blood was still a catastrophic occurrence. And anything more than a little scratch had her requesting the biggest bandage available and a Life Flight evacuation to the nearest ER.

  Eyes wide, Raven asked, “Where did it all come from? Am I going to need an infusion?”

  Wrapping her up in a tight embrace, Brook said, “You’ll be fine. You cut your elbow flailing at the monsters in your nightmare.” Then she smiled. “And no ... you won’t be needing a transfusion.”

  Brook made a trip down to the room used to store the group’s food and gear recently taken from the quarry. She returned with a couple of bandages and saw Raven with the pillow held in front of her face and spitting on the crimson stain. Afraid to ask what she was up to, Brook took the pillow and said, “Don’t worry about the blood. I’ll take care of it later.”