Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (10 page)

Glenda dug down deep and put one foot in front of the other.
She limped forward half a step, paused, and then dragged the opposite foot,
making certain to scuff the Hi-Tec’s toecap on the follow through before
finishing off with another faux half-limp. And though she was laboring under
the afternoon sun while wearing two layers over which was draped the detritus
covered bathrobe, her entire body was wracked by waves of goose bumps and a
cold unending sweat that drenched her from head to toe.

Ignoring the constant chafe and trying her best to keep from
shivering, she forged ahead, faithful that the makeup job and stench emanating
from the robe would fool the dead long enough for her to get away from
Huntsville.

With that little voice in her head urging her to give in to
the gnawing fear and run growing louder and louder with each passing second she
slowly overtook a few horribly burned foot-draggers and entered a throng of two
dozen or so tottering cadavers without garnering so much as a sidelong glance
from the entire rotten collection.

Be the dead,
she thought, watching their heads
bobbing in her side vision.

Limp. Drag. Limp.

Remain in character, Glenda. Do not look them in the eye.

Limp. Drag. Limp.

Be the dead.

Limp. Drag. Limp.

With the sun off her right shoulder, Glenda walked among
them while maintaining her
undead
gait with metronomic precision.
Suddenly, less than a mile from the State Route as a crow flies, the undead, intrigued
by, presumably, some long dead person’s abandoned wash flapping and popping on
a nearby clothesline, peeled off in unison towards the short paved drive leading
up to the property.

The abrupt change of direction startled Glenda, catching her
entirely by surprise and for a split second she came out of character to avoid
being hockey checked by a scraggly male Z that had been, prior to the sudden
about-face, near the head of the procession. As Glenda took one of its clammy
bare shoulders straightaway to the mouth, she was knocked aside and one of her upper
canines tore a half-moon-shaped gash the size of a quarter just right of its ridged
clavicle.

As the oblivious walker staggered a few inches off track,
never once taking its eyes from the rustling wash that had piqued its interest,
Glenda emitted a soft, barely audible gasp.

Barely audible, that is, to all but the thing she nearly
took a bite out of.

Reacting to the new sound, the Z stopped mid-stride,
staggered like a drunk at closing time, and slowly swiveled its head left, all
interest in keeping up with the rest of the group gone out the window.

Sensing the scrutiny, Glenda focused on the road a yard in
front of her toes and picked up her pace.

Limp. Drag. Limp.

But her mantra,
be the dead
, suddenly changed to:
Lead
the bastard away.

And that’s what she did. With the shadows of the first turn’s
outstretched arms falling on the pavement near her feet, she vectored right and
away from the short drive leading to the small single-story residence and the
clothesline full of intrigue. As the rest of the dead fell behind, the sound of
her lone pursuer’s bare feet striking hot pavement stayed with her. Maintaining
an arm’s length lead, she limped along in character like this for thirty yards
or so, the next southbound side street her immediate objective.

With the monster still in tow, she made the turn and ambled
a block south. Then with the National Guard roadblock where there had been so
much honking and gunfire that first weekend of the outbreak in sight, she
hooked a slow tottering left and led the hissing abomination east.

Nearing a long line of battered vehicles that had somehow ended
up listing in the left-hand ditch, grill to bumper, in one big pileup, she consciously
slowed and bent her left arm and, in one fluid motion, withdrew one number ten knitting
needle. Timing her move based on the footfalls behind her, Glenda waited for a
slap and when she guessed the thing was in mid-stride, spun around slowly counterclockwise,
bringing her left arm horizontal as if offering it to the hungry creature. The
thing took the bait. Its eyes bugged and it hissed and parted its maw, where on
display were two yellowed rows of cracked and splintered teeth with twisted
scraps of gristle and dermis lodged in them here and there. The stench
emanating from deep inside its gullet was worse than anything Glenda had ever
encountered. Worse even than the reek she’d endured hosing down the rendering
plant floor in Kansas that hot summer in ‘74.

But she didn’t budge. Instead, six inches from receiving
what could be a life-ending bite, she waggled her arm, focused only on the
jaundiced white of the abomination’s right eye.

Two things happened at once: The first turn grasped her
forearm in a two-handed grip, pinching the skin and flesh there and drew her
in. Then its eyes went wide and Glenda felt an incredible bone-crushing pressure
as it got a good mouthful of pink terry cloth overlaying the National
Enquirer’s final issue.

Though the thirty-something male stood a few inches taller
than Glenda, the knitting needle provided her a ten-inch advantage in reach.
And when she plunged the pointed end into its eye, the pop and sucking sound
and flood of viscous fluid that coated her hand took her back to Louie’s
bedside, instantly reminding her how much this thing called Omega had stolen
from her. A twist of the wrist turned the writhing Z into a hundred and sixty
pounds of dead weight with its jaw locked tight and ten wrinkled and bloody digits
still holding fast.

Taking Glenda down with it, the first turn fell in a
vertical heap. Mid-fall she twisted her body to the right and landed face
first, the jarring impact blurring her vision and embedding grains of blacktop
into her cheek and brow.

Shaking the stars away, Glenda craned her head and looked down
the length of her body, between the Hi-Tec’s scuffed toes, towards the distant driveway.
Nothing.
She was still alone ...
for now
. So she went to work,
frantically trying to free herself. First she tore her arm from its bite with back
and forth twisting motions until its head lolled away leaving a number of teeth
firmly snagged in the triple layers of fabric, duct tape, and paper. The bony
hands, however, were ice cold and locked to her robe in a death grip that took
a lot of prying with her fingers and the blood-slickened needle to make let go.

On the lookout for approaching feet, Glenda pushed the
corpse from her, rolled to her stomach, and cast her gaze towards the right
lane. There she saw nothing but a number of trucks and SUVs and cars loaded down
with all of the trappings of folks hoping to relocate far away from the heavily
populated cities west of Huntsville. There were no crawling half-corpses, nor
could she see shuffling feet cutting the light filtering in between the roadway
and the undercarriages. Looking higher, through the grimy auto glass, she noticed
nothing moving near the shoulder and ditch on the far side of the inert
vehicles.

Satisfied the breached roadblock was free of dead, Glenda
cleaned the needle on her robe and put it in its place next to the gossip rag
and her forearm. Then she rose shakily and, without looking over her shoulder, continued
on her way, eastbound, attacking the two dozen miles to Woodruff one clumsy
step at a time.

While the iPhone charged, Cade sat cross-legged, working his
Gerber back and forth in slow and deliberate passes against a whetstone.

Nearby, Tran and Duncan prepared the fire pit for the
evening’s feast, stacking seasoned firewood taken from Logan’s stash beside the
spit erected over the two-foot-deep hole. The deer carcass hanging from a tree
nearby would easily feed the group, but with no way to keep the remaining meat
from spoiling it would need to be turned into venison jerky. A task that even
taking into account their rustic accommodations, Tran, their resident chef, had
nearly perfected. Though there were enough beans, rice, MREs, and freeze-dried
food packets stockpiled in the dry storage to see them through the winter and
well into the next year, the group conscience was to first live off the land
when possible and only eat the stores as a last resort. With Chief and Daymon
bagging a deer or boar every few days and Tran foraging for edible plants, the group
had been eating like royalty the past three weeks.

Trying to make small talk, something which he was no good
at, Cade looked up from his task and asked, “What are tonight’s accompaniments?”

“Deer, deer and ... more deer,” replied Duncan.

“And wild spinach,” said Tran, gesturing at a mound of
greens resembling partially eaten oak leaves.

“What are the roots there?” asked Cade as Raven whizzed by
on the mountain bike, her breathing unusually ragged and audible over the
clicking of the freewheel.

“Cattail root. Grind them into a paste ... like potato.”

“For a former Green Beanie you sure aren’t very perceptive
when it comes to what you eat,” quipped Duncan.

“I broke bread with Peshmerga and lived to tell the tale,”
Cade said, smiling. “Therefore, I have no reason to ever worry about what
crosses my lips.”

Knees popping loudly, Duncan rose, regarded Cade with a
serious stare and said, “That bad?”

Cade nodded. Said, “Rotted goat and whatever else was in the
stew didn’t agree with me. I had the shits for a week. And crapping in the
Hindu Kush has its own particular set of challenges.” He wiped the oil off the whetstone
and pocketed it. Cleaned the Gerber with the kerchief he’d used on the stone
and slid the black dagger into the scabbard on his hip.

Raven ripped by again with Max in hot pursuit, the Shepherd’s
rear paws kicking up rooster tails of dark earth.

“Help us with the deer, would ya?” asked Duncan.

After looking at the iPhone which now showed a full charge,
Cade unplugged it from the charger, stood up silently, and followed the two
men.

***

Once the deer was trussed and hanging over the fire pit,
Cade searched out a quiet place where he could keep an eye on Raven and fiddle
with the phone.

He picked a tall fir near the Black Hawk and sat with his
back to the trunk. Hitched his sleeves to his elbows then thumbed the phone on
and watched the display refresh. On the phone, the background—or wallpaper as
he’d heard techy people call it—was a picture of Taryn and an older man. Cade
swiped the apps to the left until only one row remained and he could see the
important elements of the picture. In it he saw that Taryn’s hair was much
shorter than it was now. She wore a wide smile and was leaning against a man
whose hair was closely cropped, graying on the sidewalls but still dark on top.
Standing half a head taller than Taryn, the forty-something was smiling as
well, the darkly tanned skin pinching on his forehead and around his dark brown
eyes. Behind the pair was a low-to-the-ground roadster of some sort. Short
windshield. No top. Dotted with primer spots and sitting on steel wheels painted
black, the ride was more Rat-Rod than some well-to-do Baby Boomer’s trailer
queen. It was a daily driver and a work in progress. That was for sure. And it
was also obvious to Cade that Taryn was the older man’s little girl. There was
no doubt about it. His arm was draped around her shoulder and he appeared to be
drawing her in close when the photo was snapped. Cade shivered. He felt like a
voyeur looking at one of Taryn’s
ghosts
—someone she’d never see again
and whose ultimate end would most likely forever remain a mystery. Then
something far away in the background drew his attention. Behind Taryn and her dad
and the roadster, visible above the rooflines of the half-dozen single-story
dwellings ringing the cul-de-sac, he recognized the same red rock cliff band
Ari had rocketed the Ghost Hawk up the face of over a month ago.
Grand
Junction,
Cade thought as he started flicking backward through multiple
screens chock full of colorful icons.

He stopped swiping at the screen when he saw the application
shortcut emblazoned with a pixelated gray cog. He tapped the icon and navigated
inside the device’s general settings and located the slider for Airplane Mode
and swiped it off. He pressed the Home button and locked his gaze on the upper
left corner and saw that the tiny symbolic jet was now replaced by the words
No
Service
. Two words he’d hoped to see. Hit with the realization that his
experiment was over before it had even started, he thumbed the Home key and
watched the red cliffs and hot rod and smiling faces fade to black.

When Raven passed by next, Cade called her over and, once
she jammed to a stop, handed her the iPhone and charger. Seeing the sheen of
sweat on her lip and a fiery red tint to her cheeks, and hearing the same
barely perceptible wheeze, he furrowed his brow and asked, “You feeling OK?”

Though her appearance spoke differently, she nodded and
said, “I’m OK. Just hot and thirsty.”

“Then please take these to Taryn and thank her for me. And while
you’re inside have your mom listen to those lungs.”

Rolling her eyes, a move perfected only in the last year or
so, she bunched the phone and solar panel in one hand and pedaled away.

Cade called out, “Drink some water, why don’t you ... and
get something to snack on while you’re at it.”

Once the girl and dog were out of earshot, Duncan slapped
his knee and let out one of his trademark cackles. “You don’t need to worry
about rotters getting inside the wire.”

Cade looked at the deer and the fire Tran had just lit
underneath it. He consulted his Suunto and then humored Duncan with a look and
a shrug that said
please elaborate
.

After taking a small sip from his flask, Duncan shook his
head and said with an alcohol-warped drawl, “You know, you’ve got a real
firecracker there.”

“Just like her mom,” proffered Cade.

“What I wouldn’t give to find a firecracker like Brook,”
said Duncan, his voice trailing off as he stared at the sputtering fire. There
was an uncomfortable silence. Cade looked over at Tran who simply shrugged.
Then, apparently realizing how creepy his statement had sounded, Duncan
stammered, “No ... no ... no ... I meant a firecracker
like
her ... but
with a decade or two more mileage on her chassis.”

Cade smiled at the
mileage on her chassis
part of his
statement. Then he beckoned Duncan over and whispered in his ear, “Number one
... make sure Brook doesn’t hear you compare a woman’s body to a pick-up.
Number two ... you ought to think about laying off the
Jack
. We launch
at first light—” He looked at the Suunto and quickly did the math—“fourteen
hours, give or take. We need to refuel first at Morgan then we fly southeast to
our objective.”

“Objective?”

“All I have is a waypoint in the desert.”

“What then?”

“We wait.”

Arms outstretched, Duncan bobbed his head like one of those
dolls.

Recognizing the universal gesture meaning
tell me more
,
and having already decided to wait until the morning when they were in the air,
Cade simply shook his head no.

“Fuck it,” said Duncan, spinning the cap off the flask, the lid
clinking as he tilted back and drained the last of the bourbon. He held the
pose and let the final few drops hit his tongue before spinning the cap back on
and stowing the flask away in a pocket.

Cade mouthed, “No more tonight. I need you sharp because
there’s rumored to be a pot of gold waiting for all of us at the end of this
mission.”

Intrigued by the sound of things, Duncan said, “No problem. I’ll
be good to go at zero-seven-hundred.”

You better
, thought Cade as he stalked off towards
the compound. A half-dozen yards away he slung his carbine and spun around and
walked backwards. “Oh seven hundred,” he bellowed. “Hundred bucks says you’re
late.”

And when he turned back around, a knowing grin spread on his
face due to those last five words, which were calculated and uttered as a
direct challenge meant to activate Duncan’s compulsively competitive nature. Craps
or blackjack. Baccarat or Texas Hold ‘Em. Horses or dogs. Just so long as the
action
was there, the method of delivery didn’t matter to a self-professed compulsive
gambler like Duncan. And though the former Vietnam-era aviator was wise to it
or not, Cade had just surreptitiously provided that action.

And he didn’t feel a shred of remorse for doing so.