A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (36 page)

“You and Liam were playing pool...”

Lucas’s tat covered biceps rippled as he
cracked his knuckles. “You point the dude out the second you see
him—you hear?”

Paul gave his big friend a look that said,
I don’t need your help
.

“Let’s go Liam. We got some drinking to do,”
Lucas said. Everyone in Jackson knew of the man’s propensity for
the drink. Though he and his brother possessed Scandinavian
looks—blonde hair, blue eyes, and chiseled features—they told
anyone who would listen they were part Irish and part Cherokee.
That Liam also stood six-foot-five assured nobody ever called the
brothers on their genealogical bullshit. Also the fact that the two
men stayed in Robert Christian’s guest house and provided security
when Bishop wasn’t available kept most at arms’ length.

“Luke... where the hell are you,” Liam
bellowed as he tottered towards the exit, hand covering one eye,
obviously three sheets to the wind.

Lucas shot his brother a pissed-off look.
“You too shitty to drive?”

“
Have Pipsqueak drive!
” Liam shouted,
though less than a yard separated the three of them.

The patrons of the Silver Dollar, who were
mostly Essentials and rowdy as hell themselves, stopped what they
were doing to gape at the sideshow.

“Drive safe fellas,” Gerald said with an
indifferent wave of his bar towel.

The first notes of a George Thorogood number
emanated from the speakers as the two and a half man crew left the
bar.

Flipping his collar up to ward off the chill,
Lucas kept the song playing in his head.
Yeah, I am bad to the
bone
, he thought as he tossed Paul the keys to the black
Escalade. Hauling himself into the passenger seat, he looked at
Paul and said casually, “Better not get any blood on the
seats.”

Paul removed the softball-sized wad of toilet
paper from his nose and looked in the mirror to examine the crime
scene. “The breeding stopped,” he said to Lucas.

“Huh? I dishn’t catch that,” Liam
slurred.

“Makesh two ob us,” Paul answered as the
Cadillac’s parking lights flashed and the door locks popped with a
pneumatic hiss.

Paul was doubly amazed Lucas had asked him to
drive the Cadillac, seeing as how the man loved to drive drunk.
“Drive fast and take chances,” was one of the sot’s favorite
sayings. Holding the ass wipe tourniquet in place with one hand,
Paul steered the luxury SUV south along 189 while keeping an eye
out for wildlife on the road. It wasn’t unusual to see elk, moose,
coyote, and the occasional wolf in and around Jackson. But lately
there had been more instances of bear, cougar, and other top of the
food chain predators finding their way into the city. Some
theorized the diminished human population served to embolden the
animals. Others thought the walking dead were to blame for driving
the woodland creatures to chance contact with the lesser of the two
evils. Paul’s vote was on the latter.

Lucas Brother gazed at the trees whipping by
outside his window. The cognac had already begun to wear off. He
felt cursed and blessed at once. He didn’t suffer from hangovers
and could function at a high level when he was on the sauce. As of
late—though he had all of the alcohol he needed—his liquid lover
seemed to have lost her luster.
It’s the altitude,
he liked
to tell himself—one of the many lies. “You’re just a pussy,” was
usually Liam’s stock piece of advice whenever Lucas broached the
subject, but no matter how he dissected the problem he always came
to the same conclusion: he needed to quit.

“Where are we going?” Paul asked.

“Any calls from the Barrier or his
Highness... or Sir Bishop of Jackson?” Liam piped up. Then thinking
the statement through, he added, “Do not repeath that kid.”

Paul in fact hadn’t even been listening. He
shivered when he realized he couldn’t remember where he had put the
satellite phone. “Shit... ” he gasped as he searched both sides of
his seat. He yanked open the center console.
Empty
. Then he
gave his pockets a thorough pat down.

“No you did not,” Lucas said, slowly staring
daggers at the smaller man. “Where in the
fuck
did you leave
it?”

“Must’ve dropped it when the
nigger
smacked me.”

“Wash your words kid,” Liam slurred from the
back seat. “Luke and me prolly got some ‘Frican ‘Merican somewhere
in our family tree.”

Arching an eyebrow Lucas barked, “Get us to
the
House
.” Then he closed his eyes, hoping that Bishop
would be gone when they arrived. More pressing, he prayed that he
wasn’t going to give in to the compulsion and turn to the bottle in
order to chase the soft glow rapidly leaving his body.

Chapter 39

Outbreak - Day 11

Schriever AFB

Colorado Springs, Colorado

10:15 p.m.

Regina jerked awake. Maybe it was the unusual
sound of raindrops—or Mom’s snoring. It didn’t matter, she felt
awful—like when she had the flu and stayed home from school.

Her mom had seemed sick earlier.
Maybe Mom
got me sick
, she thought. She drew the doll in closer.

It started as a tickle. Like hair brushing
her neck, then a low growl.

She tried to pry Auntie Nadine’s arms from
her shoulders.
Too tight
...
cold
.

“Auntie Nadine?”

“Regina... honey... I’m sorry, I know that I
promised... but your mom pulled rank on me,” Nadine whispered from
the top bunk. “She wanted
snuggling
privileges.”

More guttural sounds.

“Mom?”

The smell hit her in the face first—like
Mom... and one of
them
combined. She covered her mouth,
started to whimper softly.

Then the cold brush of something wet on her
cheek.

The rain beat out a cadence on canvas.

Nadine resumed snoring.

Accompanying the first wave of agony white
tracers flashed across her eyes, then a funny smell, like her
prized penny collection, wet and running down her neck.

Mom’s white teeth flashed in the dark.

Regina’s screaming filled the air.

***

Screaming.

It came from somewhere across the base, a
high decibel shriek. The kind Brook had been exposed to in the
E.R.—from those who had been mortally wounded—the ones who had one
foot in this world and the other in death’s firm grasp. The shrill
sound echoing outside meant that someone had just died—or was well
on their way. The screaming lasted only a few seconds, then was
replaced by more rain assaulting the roof over their heads.

“Shhh,” Brook said, clamping a hand over
Raven’s thin lips.

As she drew the sheet up to her nose Raven
asked in a near whisper, “What was that?”

“Mom’s going to go and see.”

“Please don’t leave me Mom...
something
is out there.”

A voice in Brook’s head—real or
imagined—begged her not to go.

Her feet slapping the cold floor, Brook
retrieved her rifle and the compact Glock 19. She placed both on
the top bunk, climbed up, and pulled Raven after.

“What are we going to do?” Raven asked.

“Hopefully nothing.”

The moans and wails resumed. They went on for
minutes before staccato bursts of gunfire answered.

Brook clutched her M4, held Raven
tighter.

Somewhere from off in the distance came the
sound of a Bradley’s diesel chugging to life, the shifting of
gears, hollow clunks echoing between the barracks and then the
sound of a heavy machinegun firing. Then—only the patter of
rain.

“Is it over?” Raven whispered.

“I think so, but we’ll find out for sure in
the morning.” With those words began a long sleepless night in the
Grayson billet.

***

Schriever Mess Hall

Though it was after ten o’clock and the rain
had shown no sign of letting up, there were more people than usual
in the Schriever mess hall.

The return of the foraging convoy had not
gone unnoticed by the civilian shut-ins, the airmen, and the
soldiers who called the sprawling base home. Word had spread
quickly and the hall had been overrun and was at full capacity
until an hour ago.

Wilson surveyed the rectangular room before
taking a seat. “Good thing we waited,” he said, thinking out loud.
He shook the rain from his boonie hat and hung it on the back of
his chair.

“Too bad Ted didn’t answer when we knocked.
He seemed pretty pissed off last time I saw him.”

“Language Sash...”
Mom wouldn’t let it
slide and neither should I,
Wilson thought.

Sasha shot her brother a look that said,
‘
You’re not the boss of me
.’

Wilson let it go and asked, “What did Ted
say?”

“Something about nude yoga. If I didn’t
already know he was gay I would have been
more
creeped out.
He wasn’t
hitting
on me...
was he
?”

“Don’t flatter yourself Sis. I suspect you
were driving him crazy. Plus he’s dealing with William’s passing,”
Wilson said as a strange feeling washed over him. Knowing what he
did and not being able to share it with his sibling wasn’t at all
easy.

Sasha picked at the icing, inspected the red
and blue crystalline sprinkles, and popped the triangle shaped
morsel into her mouth. She closed her eyes, let the pastry melt for
a moment, and smiled wide, teeth showing.

“I told you they would have Pop-Tarts,”
Wilson said smugly.

“I thought you were talking about some Army
ration kind of
Pop-Tart
... not the real thing.” She took
another nibble. “Have you tasted the crackers they try to pass off
as
Ritz
in those nasty MRE things? Ugghhh.”

Wilson massaged his lower lumbar then gripped
the chair back and rotated his torso, forcibly cracking his spine.
“I helped load ten cases of the things myself. I’ve got the knots
in my shoulders and back to attest to it.”

“If only Ted knew what he was missing. Maybe
I’ll sneak him some,” Sasha said with arched brows as she stuffed a
foil packet in her pocket.

“Good idea Sash.”

She nodded and dove back into her
Pop-Tart.

“How was it out there—did you see a lot of
dead people?”

“Not as many as Denver. Not even clo...”

The sound of silverware skittering across the
floor stopped Wilson mid-sentence.

A woman screaming and then a male’s voice
yelling, “He’s infected!”

Serving trays slapped the floor followed by
footsteps and raised voices.

Wilson arose just in time to see the zombie
latching on to a soldier’s neck. Crimson blood sprayed in a flat
arc hitting the glass sneeze shields.

One of the cooks swung a pan lid,
scythe-like, at the creature’s head missing everything but the
air.

Wilson’s fight or flight instinct went into
high gear. He grabbed Sasha by the wrist and led her to the exit.
One of the most important lessons he had taken from his encounter
with his zombie neighbors in the hallway of the Viscount: zombies
were very dangerous in enclosed spaces. He had almost died that day
and he was bound and determined to live this one out.

Chapter 40

Outbreak - Day 11

Jackson Hole, Wyoming

Jackson Firehouse - 10:30 p.m.

Cade eased the door open with his left hand
and stepped across the threshold, SCAR leading the way. He hit the
thumb switch on the carbine’s fore grip toggling on the IR laser.
The green beam, visible only to those with night vision goggles,
lanced the air.

The other operators who had been stacked up
behind him outside silently poured through the doorway, painting
their assigned section of the room with a dancing laser beam.

Each of the operators had trained running the
same room-clearing maneuvers hundreds of times over, guns hot, in a
live fire environment either in Delta’s Fort Bragg kill houses or
in Tice’s case, “The Farm” at Camp Peary in Williamsburg, Virginia.
The four men didn’t need to communicate as they slithered through
the rooms clearing the lower level. They found themselves in a
roughly thirty by twenty foot open floor plan kitchen rendered in
glowing shades of green. Big enough to accommodate a crew of
firefighters, a wooden plank table sat smack dab in the middle of
the kitchen while an industrial size range and two side by side
refrigerators dominated the wall to their left. Floor to ceiling
open fronted cabinets filled with coffee mugs, dinnerware and
various pots and pans covered the right wall.

Cade passed through the darkened kitchen and
padded into the garage where an older model, almost antique, fire
engine was parked. Nearby the ubiquitous firehouse brass pole
pierced the floor and on the right side of the garage a staircase
rose up to what he presumed was the living and sleeping areas.

Ascending the stairs, the Delta team covered
each other and silently made their way to the second floor. Beyond
the doorway at the top of the landing lay a wide open, loft style,
communal living area furnished with a sectional couch and a handful
of upholstered chairs encircling a flat screen television.

Cade skirted the living room and made his way
down a darkened hallway which branched off to the left. Stopping
near an open door, he craned his neck, working his NV goggles
around the door frame.

Rendered in green a great room spread out
before him. Three rows of low slung beds, twelve in all, occupied
the room, each with its own side table, lamp, and metal storage
locker at the foot.

“Contact,” Cade said. His whisper picked up
and amplified by his throat mic reached only the Delta team’s
ears.

The third bunk to the left was occupied and
the sheet covering the green lump rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
All at once a strange feeling of deja vu washed over Cade as he
approached, crabwalking sideways to flank the person who could only
be his old buddy Daymon.