Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

by Shawn Chesser

  Raven examined the soiled pillow. Shook her head while saying, “I’m the only one who can do it.”

  Brook quickly bandaged Raven’s elbow. Then, unable to let it go, asked, “What do you mean by only you can clean the pillow?”

  “Tran said that saliva takes the blood stain out. But only our saliva works on our blood. Cause of endives or something.”

  “Enzymes,” corrected Brook. “Endive is a leafy vegetable. Like lettuce ... sort of. When did Tran tell you that, anyway?”

  “The other day. He cut himself dressing a boar.”

  “It’s nice he’s pulling his own weight finally. But it’s not true, sweetie.”

  “He said Daymon told him about it. He said it took the blood out of his clothes before.”

  Wetting the bottom of Raven’s tee shirt with her own spit, Brook rubbed the stain, lessening it considerably. Then she fetched a bottled water. Wet another part of the shirt and repeated the process. The stain now barely noticeable, she said, “The lesson you just learned is never take everything you see at face value. The moisture defeated the stain ... that’s all. The enzyme in our spit thing is an old wives’ tale.”

  “Wives’ what?” asked Raven, her vivid imagination conjuring an image of a geriatric woman with a graying prehensile tail.

  “Never mind,” answered Brook. “The second lesson you take away from this is that adults don’t always know everything about everything. Daymon knows pretty much everything about the forest and fighting fires—”

  Raven interrupted saying, “But health stuff, not so much ...”

  “Leave that to me.”

  “’Cause you’re a nurse. And the radios and stuff technology is Foley’s specialty.”

  “Correct, Bird.”

  “And security to Dad and Lev and Chief ... right?”

  “And Mom and Jamie and Taryn sort of ...”

  “She’s the driver. And Sasha said Wilson is pretty much worthless ... right?”

  Brook looked at the ceiling. Said nothing for a handful of seconds. Then she stared at Raven and saw her features softened by the single bulb’s glow. Saw the innocence there and said, “Third lesson for the day. I want you to apply lesson one and two and come to your own conclusion about Wilson.”

  “Right now?”

  “Yes.”

  Once again Raven’s face contorted and she looked at the ceiling, head cocked right a degree.

  “Well?”

  “He’s done a lot more than Sasha. That means I shouldn’t believe jealous teenagers. Right?”

  Laughing, Brook thought: A+ for today’s lesson. But not wanting to set the bar too high, she said, “Pretty much. Let’s get some breakfast and bang out our daily chores. Get dressed and grab your rifle.”

  “My rifle?”

  “Gotta have it for lesson four.”

  Brook dressed and strapped on her pistol. She picked up the Glock 19 Cade left behind. Stowed the compact semiautomatic in her cargo pocket, then retrieved her M4 from near the door and went through the motions, making sure it was locked and loaded, the selector on Safe. Seeing that Raven was ready and had mimicked her entirely, rifle check and all, Brook looked down at her watch and wondered what her man was doing at this exact moment.

  Two hundred and twenty miles away, Cade had the rubber stalk between his teeth and was taking a sip from his hydration pack when movement to his right caught his eye. Just ninety minutes after he’d first made its acquaintance, the little lizard poked its head from behind its new rock, paused briefly and then scurried from the shadow, stopping smartly on the nearest patch of sun-splashed soil where it fixed one beady eye in Cade’s direction. Remaining stock-still as if not even a hungry raptor circling overhead could see it out in the open, the lizard rotated the eye facing Cade ever so slowly towards the flat sunning rock, presumably its favorite, before surreptitiously letting it wander back and settle on the silent camo-clad intruder.

  As if moving his lips might scare the critter away, through clenched teeth Cade said, “Carpe diem, little guy.”

  The words elicited nothing. No shifting gaze on the lizard’s part. No little feint towards the cover of the nearest rock. Nothing was happening. It was a silly sort of Mexican standoff in Utah’s high desert. And worst of all, Cade had no witness to corroborate that it was even happening.

  The staring contest ensued for another couple of minutes until the gecko shifted its slender body a few degrees to the right and locked both meandering eyes at something far away, beyond the canyon rim, in a general easterly direction.

  Cade clamped down on the bite valve and took a long pull, then secured the drink tube to his shoulder strap. He raised the field glasses again and instantly saw what the gecko was already wise to. And it was an awesome sight. Filling up the slot across the way and tearing down I-70 ridiculously fast and low only a handful of feet above Andreason’s roadblock was a cinder-black, sunlight-absorbing, sight for sore eyes.

  Chapter 35

  Eden Compound

  “Really? Lemon poppy seed pound cake for breakfast,” said Brook with a tilt of her head.

  “No different than a doughnut,” replied Raven, stuffing another piece of the yellow morsel into her nearly full mouth. She divided the last piece into two squares and fed one to Max, who gobbled it down hungrily.

  Brook feigned grabbing the last square from the foil packet on Raven’s lap, causing Max to leap to all fours and the girl to laugh and inadvertently inhale some of the moist cake. Coughing, Raven scooted away on her butt until the outer edge of Duncan’s faux crop circle was at her back. She caught her breath and smiled and waved the cake tantalizingly at her mom.

  Brook feigned like she was standing up.

  Max stood equidistant from the drama playing out, his eyes connecting the dots from Brook to Raven to the pound cake in the girl’s hand.

  Without missing a beat, Raven popped the cake into her mouth, crumpled the foil packaging and made slow exaggerated chewing motions.

  “Huckleberries would have been a better choice, young lady,” said Brook as she popped a handful she’d just spent twenty minutes collecting into her mouth. Offering some to Raven, she added, “You have a nurse for a mom. How often have I let you eat a doughnut over something healthy?”

  Answering the question with a question as her dad often did, Raven said, “Who says I like huckleberries? And—” she paused for a second and swallowed “—I don’t even remember what fresh melon or strawberries or bananas taste like. And we can’t exactly walk on down to the local farmer’s market, last I checked. So what’s the harm?”

  “I earned these,” said Brook, again offering the tin of berries. “Take some ... I insist.”

  Grudgingly, Raven accepted the offering. Ate the red berries and washed them down with a swallow of water. Not wanting to let the argument go, she said, “Dad let me have doughnuts for breakfast now and again.”

  “When?”

  “After he retired and was home for good. We’d go to Krispy Kreme just about every late opening during the school year. Dad said it was for the coffee ... but he always had two of their glazed doughnuts. Three if they were fresh made and still warm.”

  That’s a helluva lot of doughnuts, thought Brook. Then she factored in No-school-vember when it seemed like every other day was a late arrival or a teacher’s in-service day. She said, “Better stop digging, Raven. ‘Cause as it stands, your dad is going to get it when he returns.”

  Classic diversion, thought Raven. Then she heard voices and saw just the people who were going to get her off the hook.

  Max growled as Sasha stepped onto the expanse of beaten-down grass. “What time did you go home?” she asked.

  Raven shrugged and wagged her head side-to-side.

  Brook greeted the Kids and smiled when she saw Sasha’s getup. With the small caliber 10/22 in hand and clad in a set of tiger-striped camos taken from the quarry, the redheaded teen looked like an extra from Apocalypse Now. Following close behind, wearing woodl
and-camouflage-patterned BDUs circa the late ’80s, Wilson and Taryn jogged an altogether different memory.

  With guns slung over their shoulders and walking arm-in-arm, they looked more like they’d just stepped from wardrobe dressed for the movie Red Dawn than a young couple trying to survive a zombie apocalypse. The brown, black, and green scheme worked well at concealing a person in the forest. However, Wilson’s red hair, even tucked under the ever-present boonie hat, totally defeated their purpose.

  At their feet Max spun a full circle, stub tail going a mile-a-minute. His exuberance lasted a dozen revolutions before he lay back down in the grass and locked his bicolored eyes on Raven.

  “What’s up?” said Brook, offering up the tin of huckleberries.

  “No thanks,” said Sasha. “I’ve got pound cake.”

  Perking up, Raven asked, “Lemon poppy seed?”

  “Vanilla,” answered Sasha as she plopped down and offered Raven a piece.

  “We’re going on patrol,” said Wilson, crunching his hat down subconsciously. He took a small handful of berries and gave them to Taryn. Then he helped himself to some, said “Thanks,” and wolfed them down.

  Taryn rolled up her sleeves, exposing the black skulls and dragons. Pushed them above her elbows and said, “We figured we’d go ahead and check the inner fence for rotters and then maybe go pump some water from the creek. Mind if we leave Sasha here with you?”

  Sasha shot Taryn a look that said: You’re not my mom. Then, acting as if it was her decision, she said, “I don’t want to pump anything. Besides, Wilson fixed the bike he found at the quarry.” She looked at Raven. “We could ride.”

  The sun emerged from behind a slow scudding bank of clouds and Brook removed her ball cap. As she fanned her face with it she fixed her gaze on Wilson and Taryn and said, “I owe you guys one for letting Raven hang out in your quarters yesterday and half the night.” Then she grinned and added rather cryptically, “Go ahead ... take allll the time you need.”

  Kicking at a stray blade of grass, Taryn said, “We’ve each got a radio set to channel ten-one. Call if anything comes up.”

  If anything comes up it won’t be here at the compound, thought Brook, the grin now a full on smile. Oh to be young again. Then, nodding at the slung carbines, she said, “You have protection I see.”

  Wilson’s face flushed a crimson nearly a match for his hair.

  Taryn fidgeted and patted the Beretta strapped to her hip. “We’ll be careful,” she answered, returning Brook’s knowing look.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” called Sasha at the retreating pair’s backs.

  Grateful the doughnut talk had been averted, Raven patted Max on the backside and hopped to her feet.

  “Let’s ride,” said Sasha theatrically, like the bike was a trail-wise steed and she was heading up a posse.

  “But it’s a boy’s bike,” Raven answered with a subtle eye roll. “I’ll share my flying purple people eater with you.”

  “I still hate that you call it that ... so no.”

  Raven said, “Suit yourself,” and bounded off to get her bike with Max keeping pace.

  After watching the girls and Max head to the compound entrance where the bikes were parked, and seeing Taryn and Wilson melt into the tree line behind the patch of level ground where the Black Hawk usually sat, Brook was blindsided by a wave of emotion and suddenly yearned for Cade’s embrace. So with nothing to do but kill time and wait for his eventual return, she lay back on the grass and perched her black ball cap on her face to block out the sun and closed her eyes. Instantly she started to relive the last three weeks. The only thing violent about them had come when she was asleep. Cade had been around almost nonstop. It had been like the thirteen months of bliss she’d enjoyed in Portland before some dumbass let a bug out and started a chain reaction that changed billions of lives in a very short time. Then her mind drifted off to her childhood and, as she slipped into sleep’s embrace, her parents and her brother seemed to be there with her. Only the images weren’t entirely formed. They were like apparitions, soft and shimmering around the edges.

  Chapter 36

  The gecko held out, standing impossibly still until the near silent craft halved the distance from where it had first appeared between the natural cut in the rock formation across the vast expanse of desert. Then, as if the largest flying predator it had ever set eyes on was homing in for the kill, mister gecko was off. Forsaking the safety of cover underneath the nearest rock, the scaly rocket zig-zagged across the hot sand towards the canyon rim and disappeared over the edge. Instead of embracing the notion that it had fallen to its doom, Cade envisioned the little survivor clinging to the vertical face and flashing the approaching Ghost Hawk a defiant one-fingered salute.

  Shielding his face with one hand, Cade scooped up his carbine, shrugged on his rucksack, and walked towards the spot where he last saw the reptile. He reached the edge just as the stealth helicopter flared and commenced a rock-solid hover with its flat underbelly level with the mesa top, but still a hundred feet or so off the canyon floor.

  The first thing Cade noticed was the obvious wear and tear on the bird. Like war paint on an Appaloosa, her black outer skin was dirt streaked as if she’d been flown through a rain shower and then hovered in a cloud of dust before drying completely. Around the irregular edges of the many maintenance panels, the radar-absorbing paint was chipped and peeling. Pencil-thin fingers of dried ochre-colored dirt streaked the three starboard-side windows. And up front he saw the cockpit glass was sullied by the greasy remnants of hundreds of bug strikes.

  As the helo sideslipped closer Cade felt the familiar pressure in his chest from the noise-cancelling rotors cutting the air closely overhead. Then he got a face full of the foul jet-fuel-smelling exhaust rising up the canyon wall.

  Abruptly the starboard-side door slid back in its tracks and the crew-chief, wearing a matte black helmet complete with smoked visor and face mask painted with a wicked set of red teeth, reached a gloved hand out and called, “Welcome aboard, sir.”

  Still holding his breath against the noxious fumes, Cade hustled the last couple of feet to the edge of the earth, grasped the man’s outstretched hand, and leapt across the sliver of daylight without a downward glance.

  Once aboard, Cade was directed by the crew chief to the eighteen-inch-wide swath of canvas not so affectionately known as the bitch seat. Which he didn’t mind. With his back pressed against the bulkhead, amidships and facing straight ahead, he could see out both sides of the helo as well as a good portion of the cockpit glass between the two pilots. He registered the door shutting then moved his gaze around the cabin, pausing for a tick on each face, familiar or not.

  The pilot in the left seat, an athletic-looking African American man whom Cade hadn’t seen before, cracked a toothy smile under his visor and flashed a thumbs up. Cade reciprocated while craning to see who was in the right-hand seat and, judging by the spot-on flying he’d already witnessed, was prepared to bet his left nut that Ari Silver was strapped in up there, armed heavily with a number of one-liners and at least a half-dozen razor-sharp quips.

  But he couldn’t quite see without stepping on some toes, so he panned left and saw Javier “Lowrider” Lopez, his stocky Hispanic friend who’d been the first to volunteer for the mission. Moving on from the freshly minted Delta captain he saw a bushy out-of-control beard mostly concealing a face he thought looked familiar. The man’s eyes narrowed and wrinkled at the corners—like he knew something Cade didn’t and was waiting for some kind of recognition. Then Cade read the name tape on the Special Forces sergeant’s MultiCam blouse, Lasseigne, and it all came back to him. Aboard the Ghost Hawk at the tail end of Cade’s previous mission weeks ago, Lopez had addressed the man as ‘Lasagna,’ a nickname no doubt. Instantly Lasseigne noted the change in Cade’s face and extended his fist for a bump. “You’re shit hot, Cade Grayson. All high speed, low drag is what they say. I’m Kelly, group ten. Everyone calls me Lasagna. Met
you a few weeks ago in Idaho.” He paused a beat and said real slowly, “And you lost the beard ...”

  Cade nodded and bumped fists. “I remember,” he said. “You and your guys took it to Bishop’s crew.”

  Lasseigne flashed a look that said: All in a day’s work, then pulled a lightweight rucksack from under his seat.

  Cade turned and nudged the man sitting on his right. Tanned as always, dressed in all black fatigues and wearing a pair of black shades darker than obsidian, Special Agent Adam Cross flashed a smile of recognition.

  “Cade Grayson,” he said. “How the hell’s civilian life been treating you? Minus the dead walking around and all, of course.”

  “Just keeping busy crossing T’s and dotting I’s, is all. You?”

  “Clay has reassigned me permanently with your old team. Griffin here too. We’ve been going nonstop since you killed Bishop.”

  And he looked it. Like he’d been running on Rip It and adrenaline since Cade saw him last. His face was no longer clean shaven and the blonde hair curling from under his tactical helmet showed the three weeks’ worth of new growth. And though the man was slumped a little, showing fatigue, perhaps, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him made the half a head advantage the chiseled Adonis normally had over Cade much more pronounced.

  That he was here and no longer at the Cheyenne Mountain Complex guarding Clay came as no surprise. For Nash had a way of endearing herself to all of the men in Special Operations, no matter the branch or rank of the individual she came into contact with. And seeing as how the leaders at Special Operations Command—SOCOM—had scattered into the wind in the days and weeks after MacDill Air Force Base in Florida had fallen to the dead, Cade guessed the petite officer—who, along with General Cornelius Shrill, had been overseeing current operations—was the one who had convinced the President to release the highly capable jack of all trades.