Soldier On: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (5 page)

For the third time in as many minutes he pressed the scope to his eye to reconfirm his worst fear. She had on the Sea World shirt, the one with the black and white orca; he had bought for her less than two weeks ago. Even though his wife Carmen was out of work, with no prospects on the horizon, Steve won out and convinced her to let him take them to Sea World in San Diego. If he had known it would be their last vacation together as a family he would have gotten her more than just that goddamn shirt. Steve cursed God.
Billions of dead walking the earth and you put her front and center pressed against the fence.
With her sandy blonde hair still pulled back in a pony tail, despite the pallor of her scratched and torn skin and lifeless eyes, she was still his little girl. He had last kissed and said good bye to Becca and Carmen in the kitchen of their little house in Draper on the morning of the first day of the outbreak. Now she was in his cross hairs and he couldn’t find it in himself to pull the trigger.

Litters was in charge of the back perimeter fence, it abutted against the woods separating the two forest service roads leading out of the back of the base. Until now there hadn’t been much activity, the few dead that did show up he promptly put down. A pile of fifteen infected corpses littered the outside of the fence, scattered randomly where they had fallen, all having been killed by bullets from his M4.

Becca had been quietly swaying back and forth, both numb hands gripping the chain link fence, for over an hour. Her stare was getting to him. Inexplicably Litters stood up from behind his blind of filled sandbags and put his rifle down.

One last time, I need to feel my baby’s soft hair, one last time.
Corporal Steve Litters didn’t cry often. During the solemn trudge towards the perimeter fence he completely lost control.

Becca stopped swaying; a low guttural moan emerged from the gaunt, stooped over ten year old. Behind her, like wraiths, more of the dead materialized from between the gnarled trees.

“Honey it’s me, Daddy.” Litters wiped his nose on his fatigue sleeve, a long silver slug trail of snot remained behind.

Litters stood six inches in front of his undead daughter. In the far recesses of his mind a voice urged him to back away. If his little girl’s catatonic gaze and eerie moaning wasn’t deterrent enough, nothing was going to keep him from trying to fix her.  He stammered, hot tears burning trails down his face, “Hold still, I won’t hurt you.”

He swallowed, a dry Mojave Desert throat cracking swallow, and reached his hand through the fence to comfort his Becca. Even though she only vaguely resembled the love of his life, her hair still had the same silky texture that he used to stroke while reading her bedtime stories.

For some reason the little ones were faster. Becca snatched her dad’s hand and plunged her incisors into the soft flesh of his forearm; the bite was deep and violent and caused his hand to reflexively snap shut. The plug of flesh and tendons slid down her throat. Litters stared in disbelief as her second bite shredded the veins of his wrist. Hot blood surged from the jagged wounds. She no longer was daddies little girl.

What was I thinking?
Were his last thoughts before he blacked out. Corporal Litters’ life pulsed into the soil, pooling near Becca's bruised and bloodied bare feet.

Outbreak Day 5

River Bend Campground

Wasatch Mountains, Utah

Sure enough the thunder clouds hadn’t been bluffing. Another low rumble, closer than the first, stirred Cade subconsciously. His eyelids twitched in response to the nightmare he was attending. When he was awake it was easy for him to separate who he was in the normal world, when there had been one, from who he had been trained to be when he was on a mission. The nocturnal thoughts were his brains way of purging. His dreams and nightmares had been coming few and far between after standing down from active duty in the elite Delta Force. Now that he was thrust back into the throes of combat and in a constant state of hyper vigilance, the midnight visitors had once again taken residence in his skull.

In his head Cade was back in Tora Bora, hunting Bin Laden, high in the mountains of Afghanistan. He watched the contrails of the circling B-52s. They were so high the occasional glint of sun off of metal or canopy was the only proof that a jet was indeed responsible for the chalky white lines. The explosions of the munitions falling from the silver specks boomed, the sound rolled and echoed across the valley. An Arc Light strike sounded like thunder, only on a grander scale.

The slight patter of rain drops didn’t wake him; it was the second booming clap of thunder that had the honor. The storm had parked itself against the Wasatch front and was struggling to hurdle the craggy peaks.

Cade opened his eyes but didn’t move his body; it was how he always woke up when in a hostile environment. Nothing moved in the dark but he was careful to remain statue like, seated in the Jeep. A jagged fork of sheet lightning briefly illuminated the camp.
What was that?
Cade asked himself, hoping his eyes had been playing tricks. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a stationary figure, standing in the bushes twenty feet in front of the Jeep.
One one thousand one
, an explosive clap from the thunder cell followed,
that was very close
. He forced his body to remain still and not give away his position, the darkness was his friend. Turning on his night vision goggles could wait as well. Any movement in the 4x4 would rock the small vehicle on its creaky suspension.

He didn’t have to wait long for the next lightning strike. Once more the surrounding camp site was revealed for a split second by the strobe effect of the lightning. The figure was no longer there. Cade’s mind was trying to fool him into thinking it had been but a figment, a shadow or the moon and clouds fucking with him. His eyes and gut told him otherwise. Ever so slowly he reached up and swiveled the goggles down, letting them hover in front of his face, at the same time he retrieved his pistol from the passenger seat.

Being that he was still not under attack, he wrestled with the question: should he wait for Mother Nature to once again cast light on the subject or should he flick the night vision goggles on and go hunting?

The decision was made for him, when at once, a pale hand penetrated the threadbare canvas top and a clenched fist shattered the glass inches from his head. The hand from above clutched the top of his helmet while the other groped at his neck. In one motion Cade recoiled from the clawing hands and discharged two shots, rapid fire through the broken window. The night vision goggles were rendered useless for a long moment, washed out from the muzzle flash in the confined space. The zombie was flailing wildly and thrusting its arms into the darkened interior. Cade scrambled over the stick shift and popped open the canvas door with his shoulder. His exit was less than graceful; he fell out of the passenger side and barrel rolled before getting back on his feet.

Cade moved away from the vehicle and flipped the goggles up hoping that his own night vision would be of use. Though his ears rang from the gunshots he could still hear the ghoul shuffling around in the dark campground. The smell emanating from the walker was much worse than that of the rotting woman in the tent.

The next flash of lightning only allowed Cade two poorly aimed shots at the approaching zombie. The first 9 mm slug destroyed the lower jaw of the burly corpse, leaving it a gaping black hole for a mouth. Shot number two sailed harmlessly into the wilderness. The monster was so close Cade could feel its presence, he flipped the goggles back down only to find the jawless zombie two feet in front of him, its head panning left to right, the green glow making it all the more evil looking. Cade froze and held his breath, partially because the odor made it necessary but also he didn’t want to give his position away; after a few seconds it lunged at him without warning and its cold hands encircled his neck. The zombie was much stronger than he thought it would be. Cade used every ounce of strength to ward off the two hundred pounds of dead weight with his free hand. He inserted the Glock into the empty hole where the things lower mandible used to be and squeezed off two shots, resulting in a shower of glowing green brains splattering the side of the Jeep. The zombie’s lifeless hands still had a firm death grip around his neck when the corpse sunk to its knees, dead for good. It took two back and forth sawing motions with the Gerber to sever the wrist tendons causing the dead fingers to spring open.

Cade inhaled deeply willing the stars of near unconsciousness away and massaged his neck, feeling for broken skin. He had no idea if the Omega virus could be transmitted through an open wound and he hoped to never find out.

Cade’s black Suunto read 6:15 am, the first light of dawn was weaving tendrils through the boughs of the trees and the rain had petered out. The full scope of the damage inflicted the night before wasn’t evident in the flat green glow of the NVGs. Now that the sun was making an appearance Cade got a good look at the walker that had almost punched his ticket. The dead creature had on scuffed hiking boots, tattered and torn walking shorts and a light flannel shirt fully blackened with brittle dried blood. Cade found a wallet on the corpse and feeling like a voyeur he rifled through the man’s personal things. His initial assessment appeared to be correct, Mr. Bob Kirkman of 2231 Glenhart Drive, Salt Lake City, Utah, had been carrying three thousand dollars worth of crisp twenties and ten ATM slips documenting their withdrawal. The dates on the slips indicated Mr. Kirkman had been in Salt Lake on the Saturday of the outbreak. Also in his possession was a picture of a woman that might have been the one in the tent, Cade had no intention of attempting a positive identification. If he had to venture a guess; Salt Lake had been over run with zombies early on and that was the reason the man and woman took to the hills. How Bob had become infected, and when the corpse in the tent had met her fate was the real mystery.

Before he left the River Bend campground, Cade manhandled Bob’s headless body and rolled it into the tent. The contents of the wallet had put a face on the dead couple, and they were once like him. It seemed right to reunite them in death.

Elbert County Georgia

June, 6, 1979

Two muddy tire tracks snaked through the cow pasture in the middle of the Georgia sticks. It had taken an hour to drive here and adding insult to injury the client didn’t even get his boots dirty. Peter let the engine idle for all of five minutes, while the two ton limo sank into the muck. Apparently his passenger had seen all he needed. The man spoke through the intercom and instructed him to proceed to the next destination. Peter knew he had heard the man’s voice before-but he couldn’t place it.

When he finally managed to get the immense car turned around, he noticed the realty sign had a red “SOLD” sticker affixed to it.

The first ninety miles from Atlanta were blacktop heaven but the last twenty had been back road hell. The hired driver struggled to keep the big beast travelling in a straight line. The Lincoln Town car limousine swayed and shimmied, its springs loudly protesting each depression in the road. It wasn’t much of a road. It was mostly gravel and potholes with washboard grooves scoured into it by the continual spring showers. The road would eventually dead-end at the Ellington quarry, four brutal miles from pavement usually only negotiated by large, high clearance trucks.

The brown cloud caught up with and enveloped the limousine as it rolled to a halt. Peter waited for the cocoon of dust to descend on the once black automobile before he stepped out to open the door for his important passenger.

Peter helped the man out and stole a brief glance at him. He appeared to be in his early forties, blonde hair starting to show hints of gray, peeked out from under his black beret. Wide rimmed black sunglasses and a thick moustache camouflaged his true features. The face, combined with the distinctive voice still didn’t help to pry the man’s identity from the recesses of Peter’s memory. For sure he was a big time player in the south but it wouldn’t do him any good to dwell on his identity. Peter’s personal rule was to never ask questions or make small talk unless addressed first. It was easier that way and honestly, the tips were better when the clients sensed their anonymity was being respected.

He got back in the drivers seat and observed his passenger approach the squat, windowless office building. The familiar looking man carried a rugged aluminum attaché case in one hand and a three foot long black tube in the other. Peter watched him with idle curiosity until he disappeared into the building.

***

The bell at the top of the door jangled, announcing the possibility of a paying customer, few and far between these days.

“Howdy.” Milo Williamson looked over his bifocals at the tall stranger. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Robert Christian, I represent a consortium of businessmen and we are erecting a stone monument in Ellington.”

Milo looked the man up and down. It struck him as strange that the fella didn’t remove his sunglasses once inside, but it truly was none of his business. “What kind of monument and where will it stand?” Milo then realized, to his dismay that he forgot to introduce himself to his visitor.  “Oh forgive me. It must be the humidity messing with my brain-my name is Milo Williamson,” he said offering his calloused hand.

The man reciprocated, pausing for a heartbeat, “Robert Christian, the pleasure is all mine.”