A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (37 page)

With Lopez’s laser hovering on the form, Cade
pulled the sheet back revealing the sleeping man’s placid face and
wandering dreadlocks splayed out snake-like over the pillow.

Cade knelt down and ever so slowly retrieved
a short combat shotgun from its hiding place underneath the bed,
then passed it back to Maddox.

Using the stunted silencer affixed to his
SCAR Cade nudged Daymon’s thigh.

His lips moved as he murmured something
unintelligible, then he rolled over onto his side coming
dangerously close to falling off of the narrow twin bed.

“Daymon... wake up,” Cade said in a stage
whisper.

The man popped up, eyes wide open, reached to
the floor, and fumbled around in the dark for the shotgun. “Shit,”
he said, eyes darting about the pitch black room trying to acquire
a sliver of equilibrium.

“Daymon it’s me... Cade Grayson.”

“Sergeant Cade,” Daymon said, relief
evidenced in his voice.

“Close enough... is there anyone else in the
firehouse.”

“Nope... just me and I can’t see a fuckin'
thing. Can I turn on a light?” Daymon asked, already reaching for
the lamp on the far side of the bed.

The sudden movement invited the cold steel
kiss of Lopez’s SCAR to his temple.

“Chill... I was just reaching for my lamp. Or
if you would like I can go down to the basement and fire up the
backup generator—noisy as hell—I haven’t used it yet cause it’s a
big fucking pain in the ass. That and I’m trying to keep a low
profile.”

Cade flipped up his NVGs. “Lamp will be
fine.”

“What, are you planning on having a séance or
something,” Tice quipped as soon as Daymon flipped the switch. The
lamp, as it turned out, was a battery powered model that barely
threw enough light to read by.

Lopez aimed his rifle away from the
dreadlocked man, asking him if he had anything brighter.

Looking like a baby foal, Daymon rolled out
of bed and slowly unfolded his lanky frame. Then as he filed by the
other operators on his way to the living area, he looked at Cade
and quipped, “Looks like you brought the entire posse this time
Sarge.”

“A little different than when we first met,”
offered Cade.

Daymon chuckled. “Maybe so, but I still got
the gun jammed in my face.”

“Lopez doesn’t cut corners.”

Once they were all seated on the enormous
sectional and a half a dozen candles were burning, Cade started the
inquisition. “That shotgun you had in the dorm... it looked a lot
like the one Duncan had when I met him outside of Portland.”

“He made me take it when he dropped me off in
Driggs.”

“So he went on to Eden?”

“As far as I know,” Daymon answered. Then he
shifted forward on the sectional to look Cade in the eye. “I’m
disappointed that after all we have been through together you
haven’t taken the time to introduce me to your entourage,” he
added, obviously alluding to their siege in the zombie-filled
farmhouse in Hannah, their crash in the Black Hawk between Denver
and Colorado Springs, and their subsequent mad dash to Schriever in
the armored car.

“I’m sorry. Where did I put my manners...?”
Cade intoned theatrically. “Daymon, I want you to meet Lopez... he
hates the Zs more than anything on this earth. Maddox there is the
tall handsome fellow with the big gun and you may call this other
guy Tice. That’s the only name I know him by... probably an alias
anyway. He’s our token Spook.”

Bristling visibly, Daymon glared at Cade
across the coffee table. “What did you call him?”

“He’s CIA.
Spook
is an affectionate
term given to those who work in the clandestine services.”

Daymon shot Cade a withering look.

“I shouldn’t have used those two words in
conjunction... sorry...” Cade stopped mid-sentence and pushed a
button on his watch starting the lap timer, then looked at Lopez,
passing an unspoken message.

A few seconds later the unmistakable sound of
the patrolling Humvee passed by a short distance from the
firehouse.

“Do you have any bikes in the house?” Cade
asked.

“Bikes?” Daymon said slowly as if he didn’t
understand the question.

“Mountain bikes preferably,” added Cade.

“I’m pretty sure a couple of the guys kept
theirs in the basement year round. Lots of single track to ride
around here in the summer.”

“Show me,” Tice said.

Daymon pulled himself up from the couch and
led the CIA man down the stairs.

Once Tice and Daymon had left the room, Cade
motioned for Maddox and Lopez to follow him to the side window. He
flipped his goggles down and pulled the curtain a few inches. In
the distance, viewed through their NVGs, the opalescent
yellow-green glow of the grass covered 25,000 acre National Elk
Refuge looked like a landlocked algae covered sea.

“There and there,” Cade said, pointing out
the school bus-sized Patriot anti-missile launchers sitting in the
open expanse. “And if Nash’s imagery is correct—which it usually
is—then the other two sites are on the opposite side near the fence
lines. The whole round trip is maybe... four miles max.”

“Good call on the bikes. They’ll be easy to
ditch if a patrol rolls around... and stealthy. And with our NVGs
and the suppressed pistols we will definitely have the upper hand,”
Maddox proffered.

“We will be
very
exposed...” Lopez
said as he made the sign of the cross. “I just hope there are no
demonios
in that big ass cow pasture.”

Tice returned to the communal area. Daymon
showed his face a moment later.

“Only two bikes downstairs,” Tice said,
shaking his head slowly, “and there are four of us.”

Cade turned off his NVGs to conserve the
batteries and flipped them up out of the way. He glanced at his
Suunto and exclaimed, “Eighteen minutes until the patrol returns.
Maddox... Lopez... you two will have to make it happen on the two
bikes. Tice and I will be your eyes and ears from here and be your
QRF (quick reaction force) if necessary.”

Quietly observing from the doorway Daymon
asked earnestly, “What are you up to Cade?”

“I can’t go into detail except to say we’re
here to set some things right,” Cade said, nodding his helmet.

“Picked the right time. Jackson is
hemorrhaging people. Robert Christian’s NA fools have been
disappearing on a daily basis. And the civilians who are
essentially slave labor prisoners slink away in the night and the
ones who get caught deserting... you don’t even want to know what
happens to them.”

“I can imagine,” Cade said solemnly. “But I’m
here with a sole purpose. We are going to need a reliable
vehicle... SUV preferably.” Cade paused in thought, and then shot a
stony look at Daymon. “When Lopez and Maddox return I need
you
to drive us to Robert Christian’s mansion.”

A cold finger traced Daymon’s spine as he
rapidly thought through the possibilities. “I can take you there.
No problem,” he replied, instantly feeling the chill leave his
body. He smiled inwardly and stared across the table at the heavily
armed soldiers draped in body armor with their tactical helmets
strapped on their heads, thinking to himself gleefully,
I’ll do
anything to get within striking distance of that Robert Christian
motherfucker.

***

Lopez and Maddox each put two detonators and
four of the two pound C4 bricks into their individual packs. They
travelled light taking only their silenced side arms, two extra
mags, and their combat knives. Neither man wanted to leave behind
their SCAR rifle, but, speed and stealth being necessary, it
couldn’t be helped.

The two operators waited twenty-two minutes
in the shadows behind the firehouse until the patrol finished
another lap.

Cade watched from the back door as the
operators mounted their bikes, took a second to push their NVGs
into place, and then pedaled off into the green-hued darkness.

***

While Tice took the first watch Cade and
Daymon rehashed the events that had occurred over the last three
days.

Cade covered everything that had happened at
Schriever since Daymon and Duncan left, minus the parts about his
brother in-law Carl and Doctor Fuentes and the antiserum.

Daymon described the trip from Schriever up
until Duncan dropped him off near his home in Driggs. He didn’t
mention Heidi nor his surveillance of Robert Christian earlier in
the day. He didn’t think it would benefit him in any way.

Chapter 41

Outbreak - Day 12

Jackson Hole, Wyoming

Midnight

Bishop came to—disoriented and out of sorts.
He rubbed the sleep from his eyes then looked at his watch—
zero
hundred
. He had closed his eyes fully expecting to be roused
from his catnap by Daly calling to say he was Winchester on ammo or
by one of the Brothers checking in.

Things like this rarely happened to the
former Navy SEAL. Though it was a minor mistake he was still pissed
off at himself.

Bishop checked his phone and thought it
strange that no one had called while he was asleep. He immediately
dialed Daly. “Come on. Pick up... pick up. Answer your phone
Goddamnit.”

After half a dozen unanswered rings he
thumbed off the Iridium. A chill feathered through him.

He left his west slope condo behind the wheel
of the Rover, speeding towards the Snake River crossing while
thinking the worst. Along the way he passed an NA security patrol
manned by two of his newer conscripts. At the moment the black
truck with the stenciled NA logo blurred by he realized he hated
having to call his Spartan contractors New America soldiers.
Furthermore, Christian’s absurd notion that he was now a world
leader thanks to Omega was growing increasingly irritating. That
the man hadn’t had the balls to run for the office of President
before the outbreak spoke volumes to his character. It was probably
because of all the bones in his closet, Bishop guessed. Or most
likely all of the bodies he had buried—figuratively of course. A
shovel had never brushed the man’s supple hands and one never
would.

“Fucking dummy,” Bishop shouted as he floored
the accelerator. He would never admit it—such was his nature—but
frankly he was more than a little embarrassed that he had
romanticized the idea of leading and molding the NA military to his
liking. In the original version of Christian’s New World Order the
possibility was most assured. Now he knew it was unattainable. For
it had become evident the sheer numbers of dead were changing
everything—except in Robert Christian’s delusional thinking.

He covered the nine miles from downtown in
less than five minutes, and as the darkened strip malls came into
view he saw that both of the bus barriers were breached.
Thankfully, he thought, most of the dead were still milling around
the houses north of the bridge. The two strip malls on this side of
the river were also teeming with the creatures.

The SUVs big tires chirped as he stabbed the
brakes, bringing it to a sudden halt on the shoulder.

In the distance he could see a number of Zs
huddled in the center of the road feeding on what he guessed was
one of his men.

As the truck idled on the side of the road he
tried Daly one more time. The phone trilled on.
No answer.
“Why didn’t you blow the fucking bridge
genius
,” Bishop
bellowed as he tousled his short cropped hair with one hand and
clouted the wheel with the other.

Some of the Zs arose from their roadway feast
and in their usual arm swinging, head bobbing manner began to
stagger in his direction, and in seconds the rest of the monsters,
thousands he guessed, became interested and gave slow motion
chase.

He gave up on Daly and called the Brothers
one last time, thumbed the speaker on and shook his head
disgustedly, waiting, hoping someone would answer. As the phone
droned on Bishop came to the conclusion that the Brothers were
either in trouble or had decided to cut and run. His sway over his
two lieutenants lately had been stronger than ever—or so he
thought. That they weren’t answering his calls troubled him on many
different levels.

He stared at the advancing horde and let
loose a long string of expletives learned in the Navy.

He threw the annoying Sat phone onto the seat
next to him and, seeing red, tromped the accelerator, steering the
Rover into the nearest walker. The SUV clipped the female zombie on
the hip sending her airborne, and like a lawn dart the pale
creature plowed headfirst into the blacktop spraying brain matter
on the yellow centerline.

“Take that bitch,” Bishop said as a morbid
smile creased his face. He wrenched the wheel over, performing a
one-eighty and pointed the Rover towards Jackson.

Once the dead were behind him and out of
sight he snatched up the Iridium and dialed another number from
memory, and after two rings one of the pilots on standby picked up.
“This is Bishop,” he barked. “Pre-flight the Gulf.”

“Why the Gulf? The Heavy gives us more
range,” the tired sounding voice on the other end replied.

“The Heavy severely limits our choice of
airstrips. Most of the municipal airports are either overrun or the
runways were blocked early on to keep the aircraft carrying
infected from landing.”

“Copy that,” the pilot intoned. “The G6 will
be ready when you arrive.”

“One last thing... I need you to write these
down and pass them on to all of the helo pilots.” He pulled over,
fished a scrap of paper from his pocket, and recited a string of
GPS coordinates. “I want all of the operable birds fueled up and
moved to that location.”

Bishop powered down the sat phone and set his
jaw as he passed East Butte Road, which he would have taken to get
to the House had he still given a shit about his former boss.
You’re on your own now R.C.
, he thought as he rushed north
on the Wyoming Centennial Scenic Byway on his way to the Jackson
Hole Airport.