A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (34 page)

Oblivious to the one-sided melee that had
just taken place, the bar owner shuffled over and poured the
dreadlocked man another healthy dose of Knob Creek.

“What’s the liquid courage for... you ain’t
thinking about tangling with the man are you?”

Daymon lifted the bourbon to his lips and met
the barman’s gaze. “You trying to talk me out of it?”

“No son... I’m concerned is all,” Gerald
said. He looked to see if anyone was interested in their
conversation, then in a low voice added, “Rumors of people
desertin’. Not just townies... hell, most of them are dead—been
killed in the first outbreak or by the brothers after. I’ve also
noticed fewer patrols around here lately.”

“What about the helicopters that have been
buzzing around all day?”

“Like I was saying... they are mobilizing. I
think there ain’t a soul in the NA that wants to go toe to toe with
the dead
or
the U.S. army.”

“And their crazy leader?” Daymon said under
his breath.

Before Gerald could answer a fist fight broke
out near the bull.

“
Knock it off. Save that shit for the
dead... or take it outside,
” Gerald growled.

Daymon slid off the bar stool and stepped
over the man whose nose he had just broken, making sure to get one
more lick in with his boot. Then he gestured towards the floor with
his thumb and said with a smile, “Gerald... looks like someone’s
had one too many over here.”

Gerald stopped mid pour, put a hand to his
ear and said, “Huh?”

With a nonchalant wave that meant ‘
never
mind’
Daymon made for the door while keeping one eye over his
shoulder in case Crew Cut happened to have some friends in the
bar.

Once outside he took in a lungful of fresh
air, and being mindful of his healing wounds, stretched his entire
body like a cat just waking from a nap. Feeling the wind nudge his
back he commenced the four block walk back to the firehouse. Along
the way he kicked over in his mind whether he would follow through
with his plan and get some Charles Bronson ‘
Death Wish
’ type
of payback or whether he should just get in Lu Lu and drive over
the Teton pass then continue past Driggs and onto Eden without
stopping. More and more Eden was looking like the most attractive
option of the two.

Over his right shoulder the sun was starting
to glide behind the Teton Range, its reflection glowing orange in
the massive mirrored windows fronting the main entrance to the
deserted Snow King Resort. His eyes were drawn to the ground by the
motion of his own dreadlocks bobbing at the end of his lengthening
shadow.
Shit... Duncan was right—it kinda does look like a
spider.
Even though he and the smartass comedian fly boy had
gotten off on the wrong foot, he had to admit he kinda missed the
old dude’s gallows sense of humor. And more than that, he missed
the unsolicited fatherly advice the man was prone to giving.

Chapter 36

Outbreak - Day 11

Jackson Hole, Wyoming

8:25 p.m.

Hearing the familiar sounding engine, Cade
pressed the Bushnells to his face waiting for the patrol to come
back around. As soon as the vehicle nosed around the corner he
checked his watch and noted the time. The Humvee kept a slow steady
pace as it moved southeast along the main drag, passing the town
square and the raised beds of wildflowers and the archways made of
stacked elk antlers before turning northeast.

Cade made another mental note.
Still spot
on timewise every twenty to twenty-five minutes
. He could see
that the passenger in the Hummer was armed with either an M-16 or
an M4. The driver, he supposed, had a similar weapon and both
occupants probably had some kind of sidearm. He shifted behind the
log to get a better view on the retreating vehicle and watched
until it disappeared from sight, then made yet another mental note
of the time.

Shadows stretched long as the sun began to
slip behind the Teton Range.

“One target at ten o’clock—moving our way,”
Maddox stated.

“I wonder why there aren’t more people
outside,” Lopez said. “You would think with none of the
demonios
walking around they would be dancing in the
streets... I know I would.”

“That’s because there aren’t very many people
left
anywhere
...
period
,” Cade said as he swept the
binoculars across the valley and settled them on the lone
pedestrian. The lanky man appeared to be bobbing his head as he
walked. For some reason Cade found his movements very familiar but
couldn’t put a finger to it, and because of the backlight he
couldn’t get a good look at the man’s face.

The sun flared brilliantly as it dipped below
the mountain, instantly cloaking the downtown area in shadow. Then
as the man stopped in front of a two-story brick building, Cade
realized who he was watching. And judging from the looks of the
huge double overhead doors the building Daymon was about to enter
had to be Jackson Hole’s only firehouse.

“Change of plans men,” Cade announced.

Snake River Crossing I-189

Sunset - 8:38 p.m.

Daly clenched his teeth then reluctantly
caressed the trigger. The mule kick recoil of the Barrett .50
caliber sniper rifle rocked his tender shoulder, sending a
supernova of pain racing up his stiffening neck muscles. With a
detached coldness he watched the zombie’s head explode in a halo of
flesh and bone, then tracked the sniper rifle left a few degrees
placing the crosshairs on the next lurching creature. A slow steady
finger pull later he witnessed the frail creature, sans head,
pirouette sideways over the smooth guardrail, free-fall limply and
land atop the hundreds of other bodies piled up underneath the
bridge on the far river bank.

Futile
, he thought to himself as he
turned and slid down with his back against the bus, the cool steel
feeling good against his sunburned shoulders. The creatures were
now pulsing through the bus barrier across the bridge. He patted
his thigh pocket—a ritual he had performed countless times since
dawn; feeling the rigid shape of the detonator momentarily put him
at ease. He massaged the stubble on his face then banged his head
against the bus, a steady resounding death knell. He had been at
the bridge sending former human beings to the afterlife for more
hours than he cared to count.

At dawn before his shift had started he had
hunkered down in the very same spot he was now and watched the
sunrise, hoping and praying that it wouldn’t be his last. And as
the black night sky softened to a dark shade of blue and the sun
finally edged over the Gros Ventre, he’d had a frightening
epiphany—or a psychotic moment.
What if I’m really dead and this
is hell
, he had asked himself as he sat listening to the
rasping wails of the dead behind him. He closed his eyes and took
inventory of his various aches and pains. The throbbing in his feet
and knees from standing hour after tedious hour on the swaying
scaffolding served to remind him he was still alive. The ache in
his right shoulder screamed in no uncertain terms that he was
fucking still alive. No part of his body was off limits from the
spirit-robbing pain, and at the moment he wanted nothing more than
to find a bed and fall asleep.

Earlier in the afternoon before Bishop left
him in charge he had said, “I’m going to get some sleep. If Holt
doesn’t drop you a load of ammunition or if you think you are close
to running out, call me ASAP. If nothing changes call me anyway at
midnight.” Daly silently cursed his boss for the mere luxury of a
few winks. After all,
he
hadn’t slept for days and it was
taking a toll on his mind and body. He also knew that without a
bottle of whisky sleep wasn’t going to happen. The whisky alone
might take the edge off the pain but it wouldn’t chase away the
demons so he could sleep.
If only I had some real medicine
,
he thought to himself. The NA was so poorly equipped he couldn’t
even get a few ibuprofen let alone a Valium or an Ambien.
So
fuck you sleeping beauty Bishop. Fuck you Robert Christian—Mister
President in title only. Fuck the NA, and fuck the dead
, he
thought. Daly wanted it all to stop and had been fantasizing about
desertion these last few hours—even going so far as planning where
he would go and what guns and supplies he would take.

Not today though
, he told
himself—besides, going solo out there would be as good as signing
his own death warrant. Figuring he had allowed the Barrett sniper
rifle enough time to cool down, he finished his bottle of water,
crinkled the empty, and tossed it on the pile with the others. He
opened the olive drab .50 caliber ammo can. Looking inside he
counted at most thirty rounds rattling around in the bottom. He
pulled out ten and slowly clicked each massive bullet into the box
magazine.

He was just inserting the magazine when he
noticed the gunfire along the line increase in tempo then rise to a
crescendo.

Not looking forward to the encore ass
whipping his shoulder was about to receive, he stood and prepared
to once again engage the enemy.

“Oh shit,” Daly blurted. The bus barrier had
been fully compromised and the bridge crossing the Snake River now
swelled with moving bodies. Where before there had been a
manageable amount of walking dead, now there seemed to be a never
ending torrent.

Daly hefted the long gun and watched in
abject terror as more creatures began to surge across the bridge.
There were definitely more Zs than the amount of bullets possessed
by the entire picket line of defenders. “
Retreat... fall back
now!
” he screamed.

The noise of gunfire and moaning dead caused
his words to fall on deaf ears.

He put the rifle to his shoulder.
I’m not
taking this paperweight with me
, he thought,
might as well
empty it
. Sighting the rifle on the zombies in the middle of
the four lane span, he squeezed off all ten rounds rapid-fire; then
he set the smoking Barrett aside as the first wave of decaying
flesh slammed against the busses with a resounding crash. Their
bodies quickly piled up, an eye watering mindless crush falling
over each other, fingernails scratching steel and glass, reaching
blindly for the meat they couldn’t see yet their instinct told them
was near.

With gunshotlike reports, the tires on the
bus to Daly’s immediate left exploded followed closely by the
crackling of imploding windows. All along the barrier metal groaned
and more windows shattered. A drawn out screech emanated from the
steel undercarriage as the surging mass drove the low slung bus
sideways. Snarling faces leered and pale arms probed the widening
gaps.

To his right where the busses abutted the
strip mall, men fell from the scaffolding screaming as the dead
overran their positions. He looked left, noticing that the dead had
broken through on that flank as well.

Time to drop the bridge
, he thought to
himself as he pulled the detonator from his cargo pocket and
fumbled with the cap covering the firing toggle. Suddenly the
scaffolding under his feet shimmied then tipped backwards. Worried
that he was about to be crushed under several hundred pounds of
falling pipe and lumber, he vaulted over the edge. The twelve foot
free-fall went smoothly—his landing did not. Upon impacting the
unforgiving blacktop his right foot hinged over at an unkind angle
and the plastic detonator flew from his grasp and skittered across
the roadway. Acutely aware of the prayers and pleas of the men who
were dying all around him, he rolled to his stomach and clawed his
way towards the detonator. If he was going to die today, he thought
to himself, the least he could do was take two hundred tons of
concrete and rebar and several thousand zombies into the Snake
River with him.

Screech!

The undead mob moved the multi-ton city bus
backwards another three feet
.

Daly’s body flushed cold as the zombies
surged through the breach less than ten feet away. “
Fuck, fuck,
fuck
...” he cried as the first one through the gap locked eyes
with him.

A hoarse rasp escaped the creature’s maw as
it glared at him through milky, wanting eyes. It advanced on him
dragging one mangled leg, its shattered arms swinging wildly. The
glistening bones piercing its putrid flesh made the thing look like
it had lost a fight with a speeding train.

“Looks like it doesn’t pay to be at the
front
of the line,” Daly said with a sneer as he shot the
battered and broken corpse in the face.

Somewhere in the distance a revving engine
resounded over the din of the dead.

Daly turned towards the sound and yelled and
waved, frantically trying to get the driver’s attention. His heart
sank and with it all hope of escaping alive as he witnessed the out
of control Durango careen into a light standard, spin sideways and
roll multiple times, ejecting the driver in the process.

“Looks like it’s every man for his fucking
self,” Daly said disgustedly as the realization that he had in fact
seen his last sunrise hit him full on. He sat up in the middle of
189 and watched as the creatures poured between the fissure nearest
him. He leveled his Glock at the horde and squeezed off a dozen
shots. Pale arms reached for him vinelike, and as a cold hand
latched onto his shattered ankle he put the pistol under his chin
and pulled the trigger.

***

The House - 8:45 p.m.

Gazing at
his
Tetons, Robert
Christian’s face reflected the sun’s fiery orange glow. The wispy
saffron clouds rode the twilight sky like zeppelins from one of the
Beatle’s acid-influenced films.

“Tran... bring more champagne and some of
your fabulous toast points and a tin of beluga caviar.”