Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (4 page)

By the third lap Cade found his second wind. Legs pumping
furiously, he followed in his own footsteps counterclockwise around the
clearing, creating a nicely beaten-down path through the knee-high grass. Freed
from the husk, seed filled the air forming a turbid comet-like tail in his
wake.

Four more laps
, he thought as he cut the corner
behind the
Kids,
who had retired the half torso and were taking turns
firing arrows into a four by eight foot rectangle of plywood. In a way he was
pretty impressed because these daily practice sessions had started immediately
after, and seemed a direct result of, unsolicited advice he’d offered up days
ago.
Instead of sitting around and rehashing days gone by
, he remembered
saying to Sasha, Wilson, and Taryn, who had been doing just that in-between the
doled out daily chores,
you oughta start honing new skills that will see you
through the days yet to come.
True, it was the same kind of
woo woo
shit Mike Desantos was apt to say to one of his Green Berets trainees on a
rudderless tangent. And since Cade had learned most everything he knew about
survival from Greg Beeson and then later from Desantos himself—the fact that
he’d just spouted some
woo woo
shit didn’t surprise him one bit.

He saw Taryn take a deep breath and exhale as he passed
silently a half-dozen yards behind her. Then he craned his head ever so
slightly and saw her lean in and release the arrow and registered the direct bull’s
eye in his side vision as he passed underneath the static Black Hawk’s drooping
rotor blades.

The young people were turning the corner. That was for sure.
Wilson, Taryn, and even Sasha had fired their weapons in self-defense and
emerged unscathed. A little shaken, one and all, but safe all the same.

Brook, on the other hand, was slow in coming to grips with
her part in countering the ambush set for them outside of Green River, Utah.
That she’d killed at least three men in the process was hard for the nurse in
her to accept. Her job had always been to nurture and care for other humans—Raven
especially. And now that she was on the other side of the equation she had
begun to question her own morality.

Cade deviated from the tamped-down trail and leaped powerfully,
clearing the blanket and Brook, blowing a kiss in her direction before spinning
around on his fully healed left ankle and powering off towards the far end of
the clearing where the brown stripe of unimproved airstrip gave way to thick
forest, the edges of the leaves on the deciduous trees already turning muted shades
of yellow, orange, and red.

Scooping up the loose shells she’d dropped when Cade had startled
her, and picturing the shit-eating grin no doubt spreading wide on his face,
Brook, fueled by justifiable anger, hollered after him, “You little shit, Cade
Grayson. I almost peed myself.” As she watched him near the end of the clearing
without breaking stride, there was a whooshing to her right and Raven screamed
along the trail on her metal steed, pigtails flowing freely behind her.

Barely a second later a furry brindle-colored missile,
following the same tangent as Cade, cut the airspace above Brook and scattered
the rest of the rounds destined for the half-filled magazine still clutched in
her hand.

“Damn it Max! You too?” Momentarily exasperated, and
slightly amused, Brook dropped the magazine and plopped onto her back on the
blanket amongst the tinkling brass and stared up at the handful of fluffy white
clouds scudding overhead.

Cruising by the
motor pool
, Cade eyed the dozen or so
vehicles parked under the double canopy. Yin and Yang—the immense flat black F-650
and once shiny white Ford Raptor—sat quietly side by side, gassed up, grills
facing the clearing and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Duncan’s repatriated Humvee
sat nearby within a cluster of American and import trucks and SUVs, its turret-mounted
.50 caliber Ma Deuce aimed menacingly across the clearing at the tunnel in the
forest where the feeder road from nearby SR-39 emerged.

As Raven passed Cade on a parallel path of her own making
she registered as a purple and chrome blur in his side vision. Her breathing,
however, sounded distinctly and loudly over the swishing grass and clicking of
the bike’s freewheel. It was the new normal. A soft wheezing that Brook had
written off as late summer-early fall allergies, usually remedied by a half-dose
of one of the adult strength Benadryls the late Logan had thoughtfully
stockpiled. But this sounded different to him. A kind of
snap
and
crackle
.
Kind of like Rice Krispies minus the
pop
.

He made a mental note to have Brook utilize the
stethoscope—another prep of Logan’s—and listen to Bird’s chest.

The final four laps, roughly a mile and a half, Cade guessed,
went by in a blur without so much as a twinge from the ankle he’d nearly broken
in a helicopter crash a little less than a month ago. In a way he wished for a
little residual pain. A sharp stab now and again. A dull ache, maybe. Hell,
anything to serve as a subtle reminder of the friends who hadn’t survived the
jarring impact with the Dakota soil and the subsequent race from the crash site,
hundreds of walking dead closing in on all quarters.

Sweating profusely in the noon-time sun, Cade plopped down next
to Brook. Chest heaving, he rolled over onto his side and stared up at her. He was
going to mention Raven’s labored breathing when the hairs on his arms stood to attention.
He sat bolt upright and remained stock still as beaded sweat made the slow journey
over his furrowed brow, meandered down the bridge of his nose and hung there,
seemingly frozen.

Brook rolled her shoulders forward and mouthed, “What?”
Simultaneously her nose crinkled and she reached for her carbine. In one fluid
motion she slapped a magazine in the well and racked back the charging handle.
Off went the safety as both her olfactory sense and Cade’s whispered words
dumped a tsunami of adrenaline into her bloodstream.

In normal times and under normal conditions a number ten knitting
needle is good for little beyond its designed purpose. Outside of knitting
colorful throws and scarfs and silly lopsided cubes only uglier than the pastel-hued
Kleenex boxes they covered, scratching an itch deep inside a plaster cast was
the only other use Glenda had found for one of the ten-inch anodized items.

But times had ceased being normal and conditions had deteriorated
so fast and severely that she was no longer an atheist and now believed
wholeheartedly that she was living in the oft talked about
end times.
So, needle in hand, she left the repurposed butler’s pantry, closing the pocket
door behind her, softly, the action matching her mood. Resignation mounting, she
went back into character, dragged her toes across the carpeted floor, and,
contrary to how she’d been walking for close to sixty years, consciously
distributed her weight as unevenly as possible and shambled to the base of the
stairs, which, to avoid a fall and possibly a broken a hip, she scaled
normally.

Resuming the uncomfortable routine, she hobbled down the upstairs
hall, entered the master bedroom, and then stood beside the king bed, wavering
silently, mouth agape.

Reacting to her presence, the trussed and decaying creature
that used to be Louie turned its head slowly but remained placid, its dead eyes
moving up and down, in sync with her swaying motion.

She smiled.
Aced the test, Glenda
.

The monster in her bed reacted instantly to the display of
emotion by letting out a rasp and straining mightily against the makeshift four-point
restraints. Eyes moistening, Glenda cast her gaze at the pantyhose tied to her
undead husband’s stick-thin wrists and ankles. And once she determined they
were holding fast and there was no danger of the blood-slickened bonds sliding
off, she bent at the waist and whispered into the creature’s ear, which, after
having been chewed off in the zombie attack, was little more than a shiny
crescent-shaped scrap of cartilage abutting a pus-encrusted dime-sized orifice.
“You were right, honey. There is a God.”

Glenda let her forearm hover an inch above undead Louie’s snapping
teeth and tattered bits of flesh—all that remained of the once million dollar
smile. “Honey,” she said. The creature went still and regarded her momentarily,
as if a snippet of memory had been jogged. Then, with the awful sound of vertebra
cracking and popping, it lunged and found purchase on Glenda’s terry cloth
robe, clamping down firmly midway between her wrist and elbow.

Instead of recoiling, which Glenda’s inner voice screamed at
her to do, she put one leg on the bed and her entire upper body on the zombie’s
sternum. Hearing what she presumed was a rib or two breaking under the trifecta
of gravity, her weight, and the latter two crushing against the corpse’s futile
thrashing, she lodged her forearm in deeper and pressed its head hard into the
pillow. “I’ll see you on the other side,” she said quietly as the number ten
needle met a little resistance at first, then slid cleanly, behind a
considerable amount of applied muscle, into one of her undead husband’s baby
blues.

Newton’s Law made two things happen near simultaneously. First
the eyeball imploded, releasing a copious amount of foul-smelling black fluid
from within the thing’s cranium. Then, as the needle perforated the frontal lobe
and continued on deeper and hit bone, all fight left the bucking corpse and
Glenda rent her arm from its slackening maw. Finally, as if the act itself
wasn’t morbid enough, seemingly in slow motion, the pasty eye socket filled to
brimming and overflowed. Still clutching the needle, Glenda felt the cold blood
wetting her clenched fist and watched it cascade down the corpse’s cheek and
form an uneven black halo on the sheet around its head.

Slowly, with the finality of the act still settling in, Glenda
slid from the cold corpse, released her grip on the needle, and wiped her bloodied
hand on her robe.

Trembling slightly and dreading what was to come next, she
whispered, “I’m sorry,” and trudged towards the vanity to fetch the scissors.

Head moving
on a swivel
as Desantos had drilled into
him years earlier, Cade rose to standing, turned a half circle and locked his
gaze at the break in the trees just left of the gravel feeder road. Quietly and
slowly he said, “We’ve got company.”

Nose crinkled against the sickly sweet stink of decaying
meat, Brook replied, “I smell ‘em. And they’re
real
close.”

Grabbing Raven’s wrist before she could wheel away, Cade plucked
her off her bike and handed her off to Brook. Turning back, he yelled across
the clearing at the Kids. “Wilson, where’s Chief?”

Hollering back, Wilson answered, “Chief Jenkins
just
left for Salt Lake.”

“
No
,” Cade bellowed, shaking his head. “
Chief
.”

“Oh ...
Chief
. He and Lev are hunting ... left at
dawn,” replied Wilson, dropping the crossbow in the grass.

Realizing that he and the Kids were the only ones available
to counter however many Zs had breached the wire, Cade called for Wilson, Taryn
and, rather reluctantly, Sasha to join him. At once a black pistol appeared in Wilson’s
fist and the twenty-year-old former fast food manager was on the move with Sasha,
his fourteen-year old sister, and Taryn, the raven haired nineteen-year-old
survivor from Grand Junction, Colorado, following in his footsteps.

Silently, his cropped ears fixed facing upwind, Max threaded
his way through the grass, passed between the trunks of two massive fir trees,
and melted into the woods like a wolf on the hunt.

With a pained look settling on his face, Cade scooped up his
carbine, which was on the sheet and next in line to be cleaned and oiled. He
addressed Wilson, who had swiftly closed to within a dozen yards. “Duncan and
Daymon ... where are they?”

Skidding to a halt and breathing hard, Wilson shook his head,
saying, “They’re out working on the roadblock.”

Cade held Wilson’s gaze for a second, came to a decision, then
looked to Taryn. “You two come with me.” He grabbed Brook’s elbow. Drew her
near and whispered, “You have a radio?”

Brook nodded.

“Good,” Cade said. “Get inside with Rave and Sasha and keep
them close by.” He stared at the redhead and said, “You good with that?”

Nodding, Sasha fingered her rifle nervously and then walked
her gaze over the impenetrable gloom at the clearing’s edge.

Again Cade said, “Good.” Shifting his attention back to
Brook, he added, “I’m taking these two with me. We’ll check the inner perimeter
first.” He kissed Raven on the head, Brook on the mouth and, looking into his
wife’s big brown eyes, said, “If we don’t return, I
do not
want you to come
looking for us. Do not leave the compound unless your survival is at stake.”

Understanding the implication behind the statement yet
remaining stoic in the face of the possibility of losing Cade to a little bite
or another breather’s bullet, Brook corralled her carbine and herded the girls
towards the compound entrance. She craned over her shoulder and saw Cade
striding towards the tree line, clean-shaven and bare from the waist up, the
INFIDEL
tattoo between his shoulder blades rippling with menace. Then, catching her off
guard, her man’s deep voice emanated from the two-way radio buried in her thigh
pocket and she listened as he relayed his intentions to Seth and Heidi and
anyone else who was listening.

Heidi started when the two-way radio came to life with a
shrill electronic warble. Fearing that her old friend Charlie Jenkins had run
up against a horde of undead and was in trouble less than ten minutes into his
journey to Salt Lake City, she snatched the chiming handset from the shelf just
as another voice emanated from its small speaker. Instead of a plea for help
coming from Jenkins, the words of one of the compound’s newest members,
delivered crisply and in a businesslike manner, dropped a more ominous and danger
filled sit-rep (situation report) onto her lap. Simultaneously the words Z
ombies
inside the wire
filled the air and resonated loudly in her mind. A
nanosecond later the first tendrils of fear caressed her spine, cold and
feathery. “Copy that,” she replied. “How many? And where?” Releasing the
Talk
button she stared ahead at the sat-phones plugged in and charging, their little
lights pulsing independently of one another, like a trio of hearts beating to totally
different rhythms.

On the other end, Cade said nothing.

Thumbing the
Talk
button again, she first asked if
anyone else could hear her, then pressed Cade for more information. There was
nothing but dead air for a few long seconds before she heard Lev’s voice, tinny
and distant. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“We have
zombies
inside the wire.”

“Where?” asked Lev.

“No idea,” replied Heidi. “Cade just reported it and then
went silent.”

Lev said, “Try him again.”

“Copy that,” replied Heidi. “Cade. You there?”

Nothing.

“Come in, Cade. You have anything new for me?”

Still nothing.

Breaking the silence, Lev said, “Me and Chief are a mile east
of the compound. Bagged a mule deer but we’ll leave it and beat feet to the
clearing. Be listening in for updates. Over and out.”

“Good copy,” said Heidi, ending the call. She looked up at
the container roof and sighed loudly. Lev asking for information that she
couldn’t provide had left her feeling hog tied. Cade not answering her repeated
calls was beginning to piss her off. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, she
waited another full minute and when she’d not heard a peep from him, nor anyone
else, she set the Motorola aside, swiveled her chair towards the partitioned
flat screen and spewed a string of expletives under her breath. Still wondering
why Phillip—who was never at a loss for words—hadn’t responded yet, she settled
her gaze on the upper right panel showing the area near the concealed gate where
she had just watched him seeing Jenkins off. The Tahoe’s bulk was no longer
filling up the screen and the thin forty-something was also out of frame, no
doubt still hiking back up to his hide overlooking the road. In the lower left rectangular
partition, the camera trained on the clearing picked up only the gentle wave-like
movement of an early fall zephyr coursing through the sun-splashed grass. And
sitting there, small and silent and inert in the background, was the gold and
navy blue DHS Black Hawk. The other panel showed the smattering of gore-streaked
pick-up trucks and SUVs sitting in the
motor pool
, but no rotters. Heidi
returned her gaze full circle and studied the front gate feed again.
Where
are you, Phillip
, she thought. And just as she was about to pick up the
radio and try to raise him it crackled to life, he said, “Phil here. Jenkins is
gone and the gate, fence, and road are clear of rotters.”

“Roger that,” said Cade.

Bastard,
thought Heidi. She kept her eyes glued to
the monitor and didn’t bother acknowledging either of the men.
What’s the
use?
Shaking her head, she shoved the Motorola across the desktop and it
shot off the edge and clattered to the floor.

A beat later Brook and Raven appeared in Heidi’s side vision,
moving left to right behind her, a hint of carrion-tinged air trailing them. In
passing, Brook asked, “Did you call everyone back to the compound?”

As if she’d just been asked the stupidest question in the
history of the world, Heidi smirked and answered with a nod.
See how you
like the silent treatment
, she thought to herself as she watched two-thirds
of the Grayson family disappear around the corner.

***

With the strange one sided interaction with Heidi on her
mind, Brook burst through the door to the Graysons’ spartanly appointed
quarters and, with a brisk tug of the dangling string, clicked the single light
bulb to life. Under the gently swaying cone of diffuse yellow light she maneuvered
Raven to the nearest low slung bunk and, after getting the girl’s full
attention, ordered her to remain in the compound until either her or Cade or
one of the other survivors came for her. Told her in no uncertain terms to stay
away from the front entrance and if a problem arose she was to get out via the emergency
escape tunnel hidden behind a false wall fronted by a phalanx of plastic five-gallon
buckets in back of the dry storage area. Then Brook had Raven repeat, verbatim,
what she’d just said and made doubly sure the diminutive twelve-year-old was
clear on how to get to their family’s pre-arranged rendezvous site.

Once she’d repeated every detail to her mom’s satisfaction,
Raven cocked her head and thrust out her arms.

Satisfied that her girl was in a right frame of mind, Brook
wrapped her up in a tight embrace. Held her for a ten count then rounded up the
lightweight Ruger 10/22, confirmed that the safety was engaged, and placed the
rifle across her daughter’s slender knees. Finally, flashing a tight smile and
with her own stubby carbine in hand, Brook strode purposefully out the door,
closing it firmly behind her.

With the possible finality of their parting driven home by
the metallic clang echoing in her wake, Brook passed ghost-like behind a
preoccupied Heidi, transited the T and, just as her eyes began to mist, entered
the darkened entry foyer. A pained smile tugging the corners of her mouth,
Brook thought glumly,
Mission accomplished
. In light of the
circumstances, which up to now she had been treating as a worst case scenario,
that she’d successfully adhered to her own self-imposed edict to
not
cry
in front of Raven was monumental to say the least. To remain stoic, and,
childhood and lost innocence be damned, begin forging the girl into the weapon
she must be in order to survive her tween years was her and Cade’s unspoken
common goal. So tears, they had concluded, must be shed away from the
impressionable girl. Teaching her it was acceptable to wear her emotions on her
sleeve, Cade had said during a private moment, was tacitly setting her up for
failure. Unknowingly conditioning her ever so slightly that one day in the
future emotion might win out over practicality thus giving her a reason to give
up in the face of adversity. Hard as it had been for Brook to implement the
doctrine herself, ever since Cade’s mission north to retrieve President Valerie
Clay’s stolen nukes she had, so far, successfully kept a week’s long streak intact.

But the prospect of losing the newfound normalcy this little
slice of heaven nestled in the glacier-carved valley in rural Utah now provided
was too much for Brook to bear.

So with hot tears painting silver rivulets down both cheeks,
she choked back a sob, closed the outer door and locked it with the supposedly
zombie-proof mechanism Chief had devised, and pressed the Motorola to her lips.

***

Shattering the still, like some kind of military Klaxon in
the confined space, one of the Thuraya sat-phones screamed for attention. Heidi
plucked the offending device off the shelf, glanced at the display and let it
finish ringing.
He’s not answering
, she thought to herself as the LCD
screen went dark. Then she replaced the phone on the shelf and said under her
breath, “And I sure as hell ain’t nobody’s secretary.”

As if in response, taken more like an accusatory retort in
her troubled mind, the sat-phone emitted a soft beep and the green LED
transitioned from the usual heartbeat-like rhythm to a more urgent attention-getting
strobe.