A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (21 page)

Bishop cursed the minty smell of death
invading his lungs as he hauled his tired carcass into the brand
new Range Rover. He cranked the A/C, hoping the new car smell
recirculating through the vehicle’s Hepa filter would somehow
overpower the odor of the dead.

He thumbed on the Iridium 9555 satellite
phone and pushed the number two key which was preprogrammed to
connect directly to Carson, a former Army Ranger and Navy SEAL
hopeful, who had washed out very early during his BUD/S training in
Coronado. He didn’t inform his number two man of the reason he was
being flown to rendezvous with the second convoy aboard one of the
NA’s Little Bird helicopters, and after years of fighting alongside
Bishop, Carson apparently knew better than to ask. By now, Bishop
thought, the convoy should be nearing the predetermined spot he had
chosen to stash the nuclear warheads that his men stole from Minot
Air Force Base, and now that he had solidified his position he
would bring Carson into the loop. Bishop waited patiently for his
call to vault into space and route through one of the Iridium
Corporation’s still functioning cross-linked Low Earth Orbit
satellites. Then after a couple of seconds and two rings, a man
answered at the other end.

“Carson here.”

“This is Ian, what is your position.”

“We are at the first set of GPS coordinates
that you sent with me.”

“Punch the second coordinates in and order
the driver and the rest of the convoy to proceed directly to that
location. Do not deviate. Do not stop. And do not let anyone or
anything slow you down. Wait for my call,” Bishop said briskly.

“Copy that,” Carson replied to an already
dead connection.

***

Bishop watched the strip malls with their
dead signage and pitch black interiors creep by. The Golden Arches
and Wendy’s, half a block apart, were both darkened and
uninhabited. He blew through intersections, ignoring the dormant
traffic signals as he wheeled the Range Rover through the four
block long cluster of new and used car lots, which usually had an
army of white shirts and ties waiting to descend like vultures on
anyone who looked halfway in the market for a new set of wheels.
The colorful plastic pennants strung from corner to corner
dominating the airspace above the dusty cars and trucks popped in
the wind like semaphores on a ghost ship.

As quiet as the streets and sidewalks had
become, it seemed like he was driving through Jackson Hole on a
holiday. It didn’t break his heart so much as it served as a
reminder of how upside down normal had become.

He slowed the SUV at the Teton Pass split and
took a slight left on East Butte Drive. After climbing the hill and
following a series of switchbacks that cut through dense woods, the
two lane blacktop ended at an oversized cul-de-sac in front of the
mansion on the hill, which the locals not so lovingly called
The
House.

Inside the mansion, a man who had been
monitoring the hidden security cameras moved a joystick and zoomed
tight on Bishop’s face.

“Wait one sir,” a male voice said over the
intercom.

“Thanks Cliff,” Bishop replied blandly.

Then after a few seconds, the gate swung
inward; much to Bishop’s chagrin no one approached or challenged
him once he was inside the compound.

He watched the gate in the rearview and
waited for it to close before stepping from the truck. The circular
drive, which was usually choked with SUVs and the occasional NA
Humvee, was unoccupied except for his ride. With the hairs on the
back of his neck standing at attention, he padded to the large
ornately carved double doors, M4 held at low ready.

He paused for a moment, listening to the
humming generators around the side of the mansion, and then punched
his six digit code into the lighted keypad. He pulled open the
heavy door, waited a tick, then cautiously entered the mansion.
Except for the single beep of the alarm rearming itself, the house
was quiet. Much too quiet for the former SEAL’s liking. Slinging
his rifle, he drew his Sig Sauer. Leaving the grand foyer with its
travertine, exotic plants and floor to ceiling Tuscan paintings
behind, he went up the right side stairs, taking them slowly one at
a time with his 9mm semi-auto pistol held in a two handed grip. His
soft soled Blackhawk boots performing as advertised allowed him to
sneak up on the security room unannounced.

He tried the handle.

Unlocked
.

On well-oiled hinges, the door opened
noiselessly, revealing a man sitting behind a bank of flat screens.
It was the same man Bishop had just talked to via the main gate
intercom.

“Cliff.”

The security guard fumbled a nearly full bag
of Cheetos as his rear jumped from the seat. “You scared the shit
outta me man,” he said, policing up his spilled snacks. With an
open palm he wiped the greasy orange seasonings from the control
panel. “Why did you have to do that?”

Ignoring the portly guard’s question, Bishop
shot back, “Where in the
hell
is everyone?”

“The brothers went on a run to Driggs.
Hutsell and Ed are here somewhere.”

“What about R.C.?”

“He’s not here,” Cliff said, wiping orange
fingers on his black pants.

Bishop keyed in on the guard’s shaking
hands.

“Look me in the eye
Clifford
. Where -
did - they - all - go?” he asked slowly.

“R.C. waved them off.”

Bishop slapped the black ball cap from the
seated man’s head. “What the
fuck
do you mean
Christian
waved them off
?”

“He and Tran took a truck...”

“Where were they going...
all
alone
?”

“The elk refuge,” Cliff said as he smoothed
his mussed locks into place.

“Did they take all of the house
vehicles?”

“Like I said—Tran and the boss took the black
Cadillac. I didn’t watch the brothers leave.”

“When the brothers get back here I want you
to call me ASAP. My phone better be buzzing before they pull in the
gate—got it?” Bishop holstered his pistol then turned and faced the
window, lacing his fingers behind his neck. “Watch those monitors
like a fucking hawk...
you hear?
”

Cliff mumbled an apology.

Bishop left the man alone to collect his hat
and a little dignity. He slammed the door behind him and retrieved
the sat phone from his cargo pocket. He stalked down the hall,
thumbing a number into the Iridium. After several rings without an
answer, a string of expletives erupted from the former SEAL’s
mouth. He thumbed in another set of numbers from memory.

“Joshua here.”

“This is Bishop. When did the brothers go
through the pass?”

“About an hour ago.”

Bishop felt his temples flush hot. “How many
vehicles and personnel?”

Joshua answered tentatively, “Just the
brothers in the Escalade.”

“And you thought that was normal? Did they
say where they were going?” he said as he pushed through the set of
French doors which fronted the top of the landing where the
circular stairways from the foyer joined.

“Ammo run or something like that,” Joshua
answered cautiously.

Standing on the outdoor veranda which
stretched around in front of the master suite, Bishop gazed at the
Tetons. “Joshua... you’re not as dumb as the others. Did you really
ask or did you just let them pass without thinking?”

“I didn’t ask. I assumed you knew... that
they had already cleared it with you.”

“What was the protocol?” Bishop asked,
struggling to keep from saying something he might regret. Joshua
wasn’t officer material as evidenced by this latest slip, but he
was trustworthy. He had covered up all evidence from the massacre
of the 4th Infantry Division soldiers without screwing that up. And
sooner or later Bishop knew that he was really going to need former
combat veterans like the swarthy New Englander. Probably much
sooner, he surmised.

After a few beats the pass sentry replied, “I
am to call you immediately if anyone comes or goes through the
pass.”

“X gets a square—good answer sir. I’m
relieving you of pass duty. I want you to leave a couple of the
newer guys there,” said Bishop.

“Copy that,” Joshua said forcefully, his mind
turning over the unusual orders.

As an afterthought Bishop added, “Pull the
snipers. Tell them to take as much ammo as they can scrounge up and
get to the bridge.”

Wondering why Bishop would leave the Teton
pass so poorly manned and against his better judgment Joshua asked,
“Are we retreating?”

“Keep your phone on,” the former SEAL said
cryptically.

Bishop thought back to his multiple
deployments in the Sandbox. He had spent more time there with his
SEAL team riding on the skids of a little bird killing insurgents
and conducting midnight snatch and grabs than he had stateside with
his wife and little boy.

In a moment of weakness he thought about
Samuel, his boy, now ten, who was with his mom back in Little
Creek, Virginia. Much to her credit, Naomi had agreed to stay near
Ian’s stateside post even after the divorce had been finalized. He
had only had a chance to visit Samuel a handful of times in between
deployments. Those meetings had been strange and surreal. His own
son pushing him away was the precursor to his free-fall from the
teams.

Shoving those thoughts back into the black
hole he called a heart, he pulled out his phone and dialed Robert
Christian. Two rings later the President of New America—who was
more so in title than in reality—picked up. “What do you want
Bishop?” the slowly unraveling man slurred.

“Where are you
sir
?” Bishop queried as
he realized his continuing deference to the ambitious man had
diminished to next to nothing.

“The question, sir, is have you taken out my
garbage yet?”

“Negative.”

“What are you waiting for
boy
?” Click.
The phone went dead.

Bishop lashed out, landing a solid kick on
Christian’s teak chaise lounge and sending the broken piece of
furniture pancaking flat to the veranda floor. Being called boy and
the slap in the face the dead phone line represented pushed him
over the edge. He could only hope to calm down enough during his
little errand so he wouldn’t snap the old man’s neck at first
sight.

At that he thumbed the phone off and headed
for the master suite; without knocking he barged in, setting his
sights on the small shrouded form swallowed up by the California
king.

Heidi felt her body rising from the luxuriant
bedding.
This is it
, she thought.
I’m going home
.
Bruises covered her formerly alabaster skin from head to toe and
her front teeth had been loose since she tried to eighty-six the
crooked nosed smartass who had worn out his welcome at the Silver
Dollar where she tended bar.

She had been drugged and then sexually
assaulted multiple times by the silver haired man and who knows who
else. Each time the dosing of drugs was more powerful and the
attacks more vicious. Those demeaning violations and the utter
helplessness of her situation had had her wanting to die now for
two days. That her soul was seemingly leaving her body filled her
with a hopeful feeling. Maybe she would get to see all of the loved
ones that she knew were dead, and Daymon, certainly he was gone.
After hearing the stories coming from Salt Lake City and the towns
along the Wasatch front, all hope for his survival had faded even
before she had been put through this latest trial.

She was ready.

Take me home
, she pleaded
silently.

What little wind remained in her lungs
expelled as someone or something heaved her limp body into the air
and brought her back down rather harshly on an unyielding
surface.

The drugs which the old man had been forcing
her to eat were still affecting her to the point where her
autonomous systems were on the verge of shutting down. She didn’t
possess the strength to regain her lost breath let alone mount a
struggle against the rough treatment at the hands of the
stranger.

Well if the Devil wants me that bad then
he can have me
, she thought before blacking out.

Chapter 24

Outbreak - Day 11

Grand Junction, Colorado

Onboard Jedi One-One

The north end of Grand Junction blurred under
the Ghost Hawk, and ahead loomed the Book Cliffs which rose in
red-orange splendor two thousand feet above the Grand Valley
floor.

“Someone give the spook a bag,” Ari intoned
as he pulled stick and skimmed the helo just feet from the nearly
vertical cliff face.

The G-forces pressed Cade firmly against the
seat and bulkhead as he stared forward between the two pilots at
nothing but blue sky. Then as the helo leveled off he finally cut
in, “Great job team... Lopez, way to go, and Tice, thanks for
getting our six with the mini. And Hicks...
that
has got to
be some kind of a record... topping this
thing
off in under
three minutes... makes those Indy pit boys playing with their
little toy cars look slow.”

“Don’t hold me to the same lofty standards if
we are forced to come back this way,” said Hicks. “Our ride is
going to be on fumes and filling her up is going to take at least
ten mikes. And taking into account the number of Zs we left
behind—shit could get hairy.”

“Hey, Spooky might even have a chance to fire
Betsy and get his mini-gun merit badge,” Lopez ribbed.

“It took every ounce of restraint in my
trigger finger not to save your butts back there,” Tice said with a
wide grin. Then he added, “Just joking fellas. That melee couldn’t
have been choreographed any better. With Wyatt and Low-Rider
gunning away and Hicksy here with the Bowie knife moves... shit...
Cirque De Soleil has nothing on you guys.”