A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (5 page)

Leaving Brook’s side, Cade broke ranks and
double-timed it to the fence, drawing his Glock along the way. Then
with his arm outstretched, the semiautomatic pistol bucked rapidly
four times. Before the sharp reports subsided, the two rotting
interlopers hinged over and crashed to the desert floor dead for
the second time.

Cade trudged the twenty yards and regained
his spot between his wife and daughter.

The chaplain surveyed those in attendance
before reciting the final petition prayer. “May his soul and the
souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in
peace.”

Cade closed his eyes in order to reflect on
the events that had occurred over the last few days. Adhering to
Mike’s wishes by not allowing Annie and the twins a chance to see
his corpse was one the most difficult and conflicting orders Cade
had ever been asked to follow. That he did so without hesitation
was a testament to the high regard he held the man even in
death.

Mike Desantos abhorred attention, shunned the
limelight, and never accepted accolades; instead he deflected any
praise onto his men. It was his opinion that war stories were for
drunks and liars. He told Annie he didn’t want the words of
warriors spoken at his funeral and she made it known ahead of time
to everyone present that the twenty-one gun salute and a simple
prayer would be sufficient.

In the end, tucked away in the corner of
Schriever Air Force base, the square patch of dirt with sweeping
vistas proved to be a fitting final resting place for the larger
than life operator. Mike ‘Cowboy’ Desantos, consummate
professional, doting dad, and loving husband would be missed by all
in attendance.

***

Cade stopped the Cushman outside of the mess
hall. “Are you sure you want to walk to Annie’s from here?”

Patting her carbine Brook answered, “We’ll be
alright.”

“C’mon Mom I’m starved,” said Raven, pulling
her mom towards the door.

Aren’t we all
, Brook thought. Over the
last two days the slop the cooks were trying to pass off as food
had been barely edible.

“Can I bring you back something Dad?”

“No sweetie. I’ve got it covered,” Cade
replied. “And I won’t be in until after lights out... so don’t wait
up.”

“Do we ever?” Brook intoned.

Noting the tension, Raven cast her eyes
downward and kicked at a chip in the concrete walkway.

Cade massaged his forehead, trying to decide
if he should further the conversation. Then his competitive genes
kicked in, settling the matter. “What are you implying?” he said,
eyebrows arched, his gaze unwavering.

Brook silently returned the stare.

“So we’re having one of these... right
here... right now? Can’t it wait until I get back?”

“I might not be here when you get back,”
Brook spat.

Clearly the last twenty-four hours had taken
a toll on Brook. Cade decided to leave it at that and take the high
road. “Raven sweetie... I’ll give you a kiss when I come in. Brook,
if you want to talk...”

“Don’t bother,” Brook countered. And before
Cade had a chance to finish the thought she said, “We
will
talk when you get back from your mission... some things are going
to have to change.”

Cade took it all in stride. This wasn’t the
first time Brook had gotten heated before one of his missions—and
he was damn sure that it wouldn’t be the last.
Damned if you do
and damned if you don’t
, he thought as he wheeled the golf cart
into the drive and then stole one last glance at his wife and
daughter entering the mess hall.

Chapter 5

Outbreak - Day 10

Schriever AFB

Colorado Springs, Colorado

Civilian Quarters

Honk! Honk!

“Keep your shirt on,” Elvis muttered. Then,
after remembering who his driver had been the day before, he
instantly changed his mind.
On second thought, take your shirt
off
, he mused as a Cheshire Cat-like grin swept his face.

Leaving the canvas Quonset-style tent which
was one of many set up to house civilian refugees at Schriever AFB,
he snagged his black nylon day pack, a long sleeved work shirt and
clicked a bulging black fanny pack around his waist. Then as an
afterthought he grabbed his well-worn Nebraska Cornhuskers ball cap
and jammed a red sweat stained bandanna into his back pocket.

The harsh high desert sun stormed the room
the second he opened the door.
Not another one of these
days
, he thought. Thankful for the carrion free fresh air, he
drew in several deep lungfuls. After the run of danger filled days,
he had learned to savor every second he wasn’t at
work
.

The same dust-coated green and brown
camouflaged GMC pickup that had taken him to the job site the day
before was parked in front of his wooden steps, a camo-clad soldier
waiting behind the wheel.

Flip flops slapping his heels, Elvis went
around the side of his tent and repossessed his detritus-covered
work boots from the buzzing mass of black flies. The foul smelling
boots went into the truck bed and Elvis climbed up front with the
driver who immediately thrust a sweaty hand in his face. “Private
Mark Farnsworth... you can call me Mark or just
Farns
if you
like, pleased to meet you.”

Not wanting to conjure up the image of an
aging, leather jacket-wearing greaser from the fifties every time
he talked to the soldier—who come to think of it looked eerily like
Richie Cunningham from the same television show—Elvis settled on
calling the soldier Mark. After returning the handshake he
introduced himself to the Opie looking fella—“Name’s Elvis Pratt
and I’m damn glad to meet you Mark,” he said in a southern drawl
tinged with hints of the street. The fact that the first female he
had been within sniffing distance in more than a week had
apparently been replaced by
this
soldier sitting to his left
was a monumental buzz kill and a rotten start to his day.

“Forgive me but it’s killing me. I’ve gotta
know. How’d you get the name Elvis?” Farnsworth asked without a
trace of shame.

“I was born August 16
^th
, 1977, the
very day
the
Elvis died on the toilet face down and ass up.
My parents... they happened to be dyed in the wool fans of
his.”

“So you inherited the name.”

“Yep... they hoped I’d be the next King.
Can’t play a lick on the guitar and my singin’ voice
does
not
leave the shower,” Elvis stated wryly.

“Any other family?”

“That’s a sore subject.”

“I’m sorry...”

“No it’s OK,” Elvis said. “Shit, I don’t
think I’m going to find a confessional anywhere near here—I might
as well unload on you.”

“My wife always said I was a good listener,”
Farns proffered.

“So I’m in Minot, basically in the middle of
nowhere on that first day... when the strange news... you know the
conflicting reports and all the stuff our government denied at
first started to come out. I check my phone and I’ve got a
voicemail from my folks in Oakland.”

“What happened to them?”

“Dad... he left the message... he said things
were
real
bad and they were going to load up the car and get
on the I-80 and get the hell out of the city... get to a temporary
military shelter in San Francisco.”

“I heard the Omega outbreak got real bad,
real quick in Oakland. Infected on every street, National Guard
shooting civilians, and civilians shooting civilians,” Farnsworth
noted.

“Apparently things got so bad that in order
to
protect
their precious
San Francisco
the Army
dropped the Oakland Bay Bridge into the drink. The second and final
voicemail I got was my sister Steph telling me they were stuck in
traffic on the bridge. Said they were nearly on the west side and
as soon as things started moving again they would be safe... said
she would call me right back.” Elvis looked out the window and
discreetly dried a tear.

“They were on the bridge when it was
demoed?”

Seething inside Elvis nodded and said, “Upper
deck... and I hold the government fully responsible for not telling
the truth about the virus
right away
... and secondly, for
the murders of my family.”

“I don’t know what to say except I’m sorry
for your loss...”

Elvis chuckled and looked coldly at
Farnsworth. “
Sorry
is not going to bring them back. So I’m
just gonna put my nose to the grindstone and get to work buryin’
the dead. And later... later I’m gonna drink myself numb.”

Farnsworth shifted uncomfortably in his seat,
put the truck in drive, and drove slowly across the base. After a
few minutes of uneasy silence he rekindled the conversation, taking
it in another direction entirely. “You said you were in Minot
before Z day. What the heck were you doing up there?”

“Working for a drilling outfit.”

“You drive a tractor there too?” Farnsworth
asked as the truck skittered and bounced along the rutted track
paralleling the twelve foot concertina topped fence, a thick plume
of dust roiling in its turbulent wake.

“If it was made outta steel, painted a bright
ass gay color and just so happened to have an engine... I was
operatin’ it.” Elvis paused for a tick, his brow furrowed as he
squared his shoulders towards Farnsworth. “If they sent you to
interrogate
me... then y’alls paperwork is fouled up. I sat
down with a sour faced MoFo for an hour this morning... and I’m
gonna tell you
exactly
what I told them, I came to Colorado
Springs cause there was nothing left for me in Minot.”

Farnsworth glanced sideways at his passenger.
The big man looked like he should be playing tight end for the
Cornhuskers, not just sporting their hat. Behind the yellow-lensed
safety glasses, Elvis’s ruddy sun-touched face wore a pinched
expression—almost as if he was carrying the weight of the world on
his shoulders.
Hell, aren’t we all these days
, Farnsworth
thought to himself as he slowed the truck near the edge of the base
proper. “All I know is that Colonel Shrill put each and every one
of us on high alert.
Stay vigilant
is what we were told,” he
said responding to the civilian’s accusation. “No I wasn’t prying.
I was just being friendly... that’s all.”

Farnsworth brought the truck to a full stop
in front of a padlocked double gate in the far northeast corner of
the base, and he quickly rolled up his window in order to ward off
the stench of death and decay and to keep the encroaching tail of
dirt from invading the truck’s interior.

As the dust vortex subsided, three walkers
materialized ambling towards the gate.

“No disrespect,” Elvis said, “but what
happened to the cute lady soldier who picked me up yesterday?”

“I’ve got no idea. We’re all spread so thin.
And it’s only gonna get worse before things turn around... if they
do.”

Elvis adjusted his hat, keeping a watchful
eye on the advancing corpses. “I heard downtown Springs was nearly
cleared out.”

“Getting close. The power outside of
Schriever might be back on within a week,” Farnsworth said, shaking
his head slowly side to side. “And I thought I’d never see that
day. You’ve seen all of the zombies—shit—you’re the man burying
them. It’s different now. Not only are we fighting the dead...but
there is a group... there is a group of very connected people that
want the old United States to disappear.”

“I can kinda sympathize,” Elvis said with a
shrug.

“But Elvis... there are so few of us left
now,” Farnsworth said solemnly. “Humans fighting humans... I fail
to understand the rationale behind that shit.”

“It’s gotta end sometime,” Elvis added, a sly
grin visiting his face.

“Give me a second, I’ll be right back,” said
Farnsworth matter-of-factly. He let the engine idle, exited the
truck, and unlocked the interior gate. Then he approached the
padlocked outer fence with his Beretta drawn.

From Elvis’s vantage point in the truck, the
first zombie to reach the fence looked pretty fresh—a brand new
turn. Major portions of flesh had been rent from her torso,
exposing glossy muscle and half eaten internal organs. Inexplicably
her gait remained smooth—almost natural.

The other two zombies, badly decomposed first
turns, lurched after—forming a macabre slow motion procession.

Farnsworth couldn’t decide which was harder
to ignore, the moaning and raspy hisses coming from their dry pie
holes or their milky dead eyes trying to stare the flesh from his
bones.

He waited patiently until all three noisy
creatures stood shoulder to shoulder, their pale bodies pressing
the fence inward. Then he walked from left to right efficiently
dropping each ghoul with a single gunshot to the eye socket.

Farnsworth clambered into the truck and
wheeled the bucking quarter-ton vehicle over the three prostrate
zombies and onward through the gates. “You know Elvis... I don’t
think I’m ever gonna get used to that squishy crackling sound,” he
proffered as a sudden wave of nausea churned his guts.

When the truck cleared the threshold, the
fair haired private jumped from the GMC, his head and eyes
constantly scanning for walkers, and loped the dozen feet to the
gate. Doing his best not to look at the pulped mess, he quickly
closed the gate and snapped the lock. An involuntarily shudder
wracked his body as he padded back to the truck with his gun drawn.
He hated the oppressive feeling of total vulnerability he
shouldered when venturing outside of the wire. And that feeling
increased exponentially whenever he had to exit the false security
of the unarmored GMC pickup.

Silence occupied the sweltering cab as
vestiges of the old world—the world of the living—slid by on the
passenger side. Foreboding and dark, a fence-ringed sporting goods
store sat adjacent to a partially boarded up strip mall.
Inexplicably the shrines to instant gratification and retail excess
had somehow escaped the widespread looting rampant in the days
following the declaration of martial law.