Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (Book 9): Frayed

by Chesser, Shawn

  He paused a few steps beyond the bus and looked at the ground near his boots. Standing there with the duster flapping in the wind, he wiped the tears and ruffled his bushy black beard.

  Then, in his mind’s eye, he saw through the snow and was looking at the skid marks on the gray asphalt. The black chevron patterns left behind were unusually large and appeared to have come from the tires on a military vehicle or commercial truck. The distance he had paced off between the two parallel black stripes told the same story. Add the numerous shell casings found here and Dregan had many clues to the puzzle that was her death. A puzzle he was still far from piecing together completely.

  Now, just past the intersection, walking head down, eyes sweeping the road, Dregan picked up on two faint parallel lines imprinted in the snow. They tracked off to the north toward the herd. And if not for the emerging sun he would have missed them entirely.

  Stooping over, he probed the top quarter-inch of snow with the sword. He inhaled and held the breath. Set the sword aside and went to his knees. Gently he brushed the fresh layer of snow away and saw the same thick chevrons compacted into the base layer of snow. Like metal shavings to a magnet, his eyes were drawn north.

  Still staring down the road, he reached into his pocket and drug the iPhone out. He swiped through the photos and came to the series he was looking for. Wincing, he bypassed the postmortem shots and stopped the scroll on the evidentiary pictures.

  “Perfect match,” he said, looking down the road. In the ensuing couple of minutes the dead hadn’t moved at all. The snow had stopped falling and, as if Lena were sending a message, shafts of golden light were bathing the roadway ahead. The phone went back into his pocket and he lapsed into a moment of deep reflection.

  ***

  A couple of minutes later, after calculating the snowfall at roughly an inch an hour and estimating the new coverage over the tire tracks to be a quarter to half an inch, he concluded that the vehicle responsible for leaving them had passed by sometime in the last half hour or so.

  He stood up and paced off the distance between tracks and found it to be a perfect match. Smiling at his good fortune, he followed the tracks north past the sign proclaiming to any northbound traffic—of which there had been very little in the last few months—that State Route 16 was now Main Street and the speed limit a Strictly Enforced 35.

  With his labored breathing producing a seemingly constant white cloud that swirled around, shrouding his face, he marched on, emboldened, until he was standing on the center of the road, the nearby telephone poles lining it canted at odd angles and the road smeared with pulped biters everywhere he looked.

  It was obvious that the southbound vehicle responsible for the tracks had also cut a swath through the middle of the dead and apparently took the time to run these ones over.

  The dead on the road made not a peep, standing or fallen. However, as he followed the trail of battered bodies north on Main, he did detect the slightest of movements at times. Mostly action in his side-vision that he wrote off as blowing snow or tattered clothing flapping in the breeze.

  He didn’t believe his own intuition until he spun a one-eighty and noticed that the hundreds of pairs of lifeless eyes he had made contact with as he hiked north into the belly of the beast were now inexplicably fixed on him. Not all of them. But the ones still standing at an angle where they could see him as he had moved through their midst had tracked him. And it pissed him off. He thought the freezing cold and the wind chill had killed them. He prayed it had. The first frost of the season was yesterday and they seemed slower then. And now, miraculously, Utah and Wyoming had been blessed with a very early first snow.

  But they weren’t truly dead in the sense of the word. So he raised the sword and held it two-handed, vertical in front of his face, and belted out a war cry that echoed off the nearby buildings.

  The full-throated wail had no noticeable effect on the dead. There was no movement whatsoever.

  He remained rooted, staring at the upright biters. Watching the final tiny flakes drift down and settle on their heads and shoulders, adding to the snow already accumulated there as silence returned to Main Street.

  In a fit of rage, and projecting a generic man’s face on the biters—the face he’d arbitrarily assigned to Lena’s killer— the big man waded into the stalled-out herd, swinging the sword in wide-reaching arcs. In a frenzy that lasted only a couple of minutes, he’d relieved two dozen of them of their heads, stabbed a dozen more through the temple where they lay, and came to the conclusion that though they still hungered for his flesh, they were of no threat to him so long as the weather held.

  Stooped over and panting, he dropped the bloodied sword between his splayed-out feet. Planting his hands on his knees, he started to cry. His back heaved and the tears flowed hot as he contemplated the hard uphill slog he and his family had before them.

  ***

  He stayed in that position for a couple of minutes; then, with tears freezing to his cheeks, he scooped the sword off the ground, stalked over to one of the prone creatures and wiped the double-edged blade off on the thing’s tattered white and blue BYU tank top.

  On the way back to the camouflaged Blazer, Dregan contemplated the tire tracks. He wondered what their being here near Woodruff implied and quickly concluded that none of it could be good. With those boxes checked, all that was left was the hard choice he needed to make.

  Near the intersection, he glanced up and read the road sign facing him. There were three towns listed and the distance between the nearby junction. The first entry read Huntsville 49, then in descending order vertically, Eden, 53, and lastly, Ogden, 63.

  Standing at the junction, he began to feel Lena’s presence and slowly the rage that was still bubbling under the surface receded. And as if she were pointing the way from the afterlife, his gaze was inexplicably drawn from the ditch where he had found her faceless body to the shoulder just off to his right bordering 39 westbound.

  Incredulous, he asked himself, “How’d you miss those, Dregan?” There, on the ground where southbound 16 swooped to the right, the sloping edge beyond the shoulder was partially collapsed. He covered the distance in a hurry, knelt on the road and discovered the true nature of the disturbance. Pressed into the soft gravel were the same bold chevron patterns as the ones cut into the off-road tires responsible for the southbound tracks.

  Hands shaking, he dug out Lena’s phone and compared the pattern in the photo with the ones in the freshly churned-up gravel. Again they were a perfect match.

  Following the tracks with his eye, he came to the conclusion that the vehicle that made them

  had also sheared off a nearby sign, leaving a two-inch splintered nub sticking up through the snow on the shoulder.

  With yet another piece of the puzzle tumbling into place, he rose and turned to the west, fixing his eyes on 39 winding away into the distance. And though he couldn’t see the tracks because of the effects of the flat light on the snow, he knew in his heart of hearts they were there somewhere.

  “Gotcha,” he said. Out came an old wallet-sized school photo of Lena. He kissed her on the forehead and hustled back to the Blazer. Along the way, he unshouldered his AR and untied the sash securing the sword and scabbard to his body. With his heart breakdancing in his chest and a smile spreading on his face, he piled into the Blazer behind his weapons and started the engine.

  Chapter 11

  Inside one of the rundown sheds, Cade had found a rickety wooden box on which the words TNT and HANDLE WITH CAUTION and NO SMOKING had been stenciled in warning-red. He placed it in front of the broken door of the first shed and, using it as a makeshift stepladder, was able to reach the gooseneck lamp affixed to the weathered siding. Finding his multi-tool of no use on the screws that had been fused tight by age and rust, he grabbed ahold of the tubular neck two-handed and stepped off the dynamite box, letting his hundred and eighty pounds do what the Phillips attachment could not. Instantly there was a sharp crack, a horizontal
fault line formed in the gray clapboards, and he was back to earth holding the rusty light standard and base plate complete with the stripped-out wood screws still sticking from it.

  Under Max’s watchful eye, he repeated the process, tearing the lights off the other two decaying buildings, and when he was done there were three fixtures lying in the snow and heavily insulated wires protruding from the three fresh wounds atop each door.

  The fixtures, bases and all, went into the Ford’s bed with the bikes, garbage bags, and other odds and ends.

  Back inside the truck, Cade started the engine and spent a moment warming his hands in front of the heater vents. Meanwhile, Max had regained his place on the passenger floor and was licking snow and mud from his paws.

  Outside the truck, the snow had tapered to just a few scattered flakes and, as Cade had assumed would be the case, the thermometer built into the truck’s trip computer told him the temperature was still falling.

  Scratching the shepherd behind the ears, Cade said, “The day is young, Max. What do ya say we get back to the compound?” To which Max, eyeing the curved plastic ball launcher Cade had snatched from the house with the dog food, thumped his stub-tail excitedly on the floor mat.

  “When we get back to the compound, I’m sure someone’ll throw the ball for you, boy,” Cade said, wheeling the rig around in the quarry lot. “Unfortunately, Old Man Winter has left no time for R and R in my immediate future.”

  As always, Max offered up an indifferent yawn and rested his muzzle on his paws.

  ***

  Fifteen minutes after monkeying the first fixture off its outbuilding, the quarry gate was chained and locked up tight and Cade had negotiated the winding feeder road with no issues.

  With a thin sliver of blue peeking through the cloud cover directly overhead, he bumped the Ford back onto 39 and proceeded west toward the Eden compound.

  ***

  Delaying the inevitable conflict at the end of the freshly printed tracks, Dregan sat in the truck with the engine stilled and rooted in a pocket for a power cord. He plugged the USB end into the stubby 12v lighter adapter. Then he reached into his parka and pulled his battered business iPhone from an inside pocket. He hadn’t made or received a call with it since three days after the dead began to walk. It had been in the console of his truck along with the charger for most of the forty days leading up to Lena’s murder. In the days since it has been with him always.

  He snugged the large end of the white data cable into the phone’s charger port and powered it on. “I’ll be ...” he said upon seeing the device light up.

  He tapped out 9982—Lena’s birthday: month, day, and year—and the phone unlocked and he was presented a screen cluttered with colorful application tiles. He navigated to the video playback app, sorted through the videos until he found the one shot only a week before the Great Fall. Hit the opaque arrow on the screen and started the three-minute snippet running. He watched Lena and Mikhail—Michael to everyone outside his close circle—exchange vows. Saw the camera waver for a few seconds on the priest as he finished reciting the nuptials and then in a sing-song nasally voice proclaim the young couple man and wife. Feeling his face flush, he cursed at Lena for choosing Mikhail for her husband—an opinion that resided only in his head and heart until the two of them were dead.

  After spending fifteen minutes watching mostly older videos from before, he noticed that the snow was tapering off and a wide north/south band of cobalt sky had appeared off to his left. The low mountains to the east were no longer indiscernible from the gray clouds, their white peaks standing out sharply against the brilliant blue backdrop. Behind the peaks, however, another storm front consisting of snow-heavy black clouds was forming.

  He turned the key and listened to the rattle clatter as the ancient diesel motor surged to life. While the power plant worked up to a proper operating temperature, he powered on the CB and raised his eldest son, Gregory.

  The second Dregan stated his intentions, a heated argument broke out with both men pleading their cases, the son’s coming across heated and emotional, and the father’s relayed calmly and rationally; when Dregan didn’t capitulate and agree to wait for Gregory to join him before proceeding, the connection was terminated abruptly on the son’s end.

  Dregan shook his head. “Fools rush in,” he said in a low voice. That the boy had even dared question his decision to follow at a standoff distance and gather as much information as possible before striking only served to solidify it. Weeks of perceived inaction on his part had caused a rift that was threatening to widen and break them all apart.

  With a bevy of emotions tugging his heart every which way, he drove slowly to the junction with 39, hooked the sharp left there, negotiated the gap between the school bus on the left and the low Jersey barriers on the right, and then picked up the faint tire tracks spooling out to the west. Keeping his speed to half of the posted fifty-miles-per-hour, he followed them a number of miles through canyons of snow-flocked trees until there came a point in the road where there was a deviation in the westbound tracks. There they abruptly veered hard left into the oncoming lane, looped back and disappeared through the low bushes flanking the right side of the road. Beyond the point of entry were identical but opposite tracks from the maneuver being repeated when the vehicle he was following had emerged back onto the road and resumed its westbound tack.

  Dregan ground the SUV to a halt. He looked right and saw that the shoulder was churned up from the comings and goings. His eye traced the snowy white straights and switchbacks up the side hill.

  With every intention of following the road upward, he cranked the wheel right and was nosing the rig through the underbrush when the CB crackled to life. Derailing his plan, his youngest son said in a voice strained and emotion-filled, “Don’t do it, Dad. You know Judge Pomeroy has forbidden us from taking the law into our own hands.”

  Forbidden. Dregan absolutely hated that word. Fuck Lucius Pomeroy. Dogs were forbidden from jumping on furniture. Kids were forbidden from playing with matches. Adults were free to choose their destiny. Always had been, within limits. And now with the world gone to shit, he believed men and women should have even more freedom. He especially hated how the judge from Salt Lake had sidled onto the scene shortly after the fall and started throwing his weight around, quoting old laws and exerting his authority on even the most mundane of issues. It was as if Dregan had been thrown back into the business world, where every little peon with a government title reveled in keeping him under their thumb through inane rules and regulations.

  Feeling his face flush hot with anger, Dregan snatched up the CB. He paused briefly to collect his thoughts then spoke. “This is none of Pomeroy’s concern, Peter. I don’t know what Gregory has been telling you, but you need to remember one thing … this is a family matter.”

  There was silence for a moment. Then a rustling in the background followed by an unmistakable voice emanating from the CB. “You’re not the one to dole out judgments, Dregan,” said a deep male voice. “I am. The people”—Sheeple, thought Dregan—“elected me and don’t you forget that. A jury will decide what happens to Mikhail and Lena’s killers when they are caught.”

  “Bullshit. It’s my score to settle,” Dregan shot back. “Not yours or twelve or a hundred of my peers.” He spat out the last word.

  “That’s not how we did it before,” came Pomeroy’s banal reply. “And that’s not how we do it now.”

  Like a fork of lightning, it hit Dregan where the judge was. “Why are you in my home?” he spat.

  “I’m not,” replied Pomeroy. “I’d never make it up that ladder of yours. So I’m standing in your yard next to your Tahoe and talking to your boy. Where are you?”

  “None of your business. Now put my boy back on and go bother someone else.”

  “I came to speak with you,” replied Pomeroy. “Someone said you were snooping around Helen and Ray’s place again.”

  “Providing a service.”

 
“Now I’m really looking forward to seeing you in my chambers when you get back from your little sojourn,” Pomeroy said.

  Through gritted teeth, Dregan said, “Me as well.” He paused. “Now give the CB to my boy.”

  There was a rustling and a grunt and then the radio went silent.

  “Peter?”

  “I’m sorry, Dad. I was playing in the snow when he drove up. He saw your truck in the drive. He didn’t believe me when I told him you were gone.”

  Knowing Pomeroy was probably still within earshot, Dregan lied to Peter. “When your brother gets back, tell him that I changed my mind about going to Huntsville. I figure since the biters are slowed down I’m going to continue on north and snoop around Randall.”

  “When will you be home?” Peter asked.

  “Before noon,” replied Dregan, truthfully.

  “Love you, Dad.”

  “Love you too, Peter.”

  Standing in the snow in the front yard of the Dregan home, Peter put the CB in his coat pocket and swung his gaze to the big man dressed in black. “Don’t be mean to my dad,” he said, voice wavering.

  In turn, Pomeroy smiled wide and said, “If your dad continues to walk the line, you have nothing to worry about.” He turned toward his full-sized Chevy Suburban, took two steps through the snow and turned back. “You did the right thing, Peter. You kept your dad safe by telling me the truth.”

  Peter stuck a spindly branch in the middle snowball of the three making up the scrawny-looking snowman’s body. Unsure of what to say, wisely, he said nothing and watched the black SUV reverse from the drive and motor off toward the center of town. When it turned from view, he looked over both shoulders and, upon seeing the coast was clear, threw a pair of upthrust middle fingers after the SUV.

  Chapter 12

  Eager to spill about the new development, and wanting to do it in person so as to accurately gauge the reactions of the other survivors, Cade threw the truck through the corners and met the speed limit on the straightaways. A handful of minutes after leaving the quarry road he was through the main gate, had negotiated the middle barrier, and was pulling the Ford in tight next to a row of snow-covered trucks and SUVs.