Soldier On: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (19 page)

The door blasted from the frame and caromed off the small breakfast table, landing lengthwise partially blocking the doorway. A normal human would try to step over the obstruction-the mindless druggie tried to bull right through it.

The man smelled rotten, worse than Lizzie. Like the tumblers in a lock everything instantly fell together and started making sense.
The Boise Statesman was right
; Dan thought incredulously,
the dead really are walking.

Dan leveled his weapon point blank at the struggling man’s head, the pistol bucked twice in his hand. The Colts report was thunderous in the confined kitchen, momentarily deafening him.

The abomination collapsed over the splintered door.

The Colt .45 is a very effective man stopper, not much skull was left from the eyebrows up. Dan watched the dead man’s brain dribble out in slow motion, clumping in a mound on the black and white checkerboard linoleum.

He prodded the body with the still smoking muzzle and then rolled it over with his free hand. The fact that the unmoving corpse was already ice cold to the touch further confirmed what he had read in the fish wrapper.

His newfound knowledge of how his world had changed around him dictated his next move.

My daddy fought the Nazis
, he thought,
and I sure as hell aint gonna let them repopulate the town I was born and raised in
.
There has got to be someone, somewhere,
upholding the rule of law
.

With Sheriff Blanda swinging in the wind and Lizzie gone for good, there was no reason for Dan to remain in Stanley.

Dan searched the cupboard where Lizzie kept her car keys; he found them after moving around countless bottles of prescription medicines.

Over the course of the ensuing three hours, two more large groups of brigands roared down the main street in the direction of the Aryan’s fortress like compound. For good measure Dan waited until half past two in the morning, with only the two corpses for company. He wanted the thugs to do their usual and get good and shitty before he attempted to sneak past them.

Dan stepped over the shortened corpse, steering clear of brain matter, and warily trudged into the obsidian black night.

***

The garage doors were closed, but unlocked. In a city as quiet as Stanley, where everyone knew their neighbor, there was no need to batten down the hatches. The simple fact that the doors remained shut told Dan the old gal’s car was still parked inside. The unoiled hinges shrieked in protest when Dan yanked them open, he had his pistol trained on the shadowy interior; the only thing taking up space was the midnight blue Dodge Aries.

The rarely used four door started after a few cranks. Dan maneuvered the car from the cramped garage and let it coast down the driveway to the street.

Before leaving, Dan turned in his seat to look at the charnel house. A very important part of his past had died there, her name was Elizabeth Eloise Paxton and he would always love her.

With a heavy heart and a lead foot he intended to put Stanley, Idaho behind him forever.

***

Well before he got to the Aryan compound, Dan extinguished the headlights, hoping the occupants inside were all passed out or too drunk to notice the darkened car creeping past.

His hopes were dashed when he noticed the one man roadblock. Two fifty-five-gallon metal drums with a length of yellow police line tape strung between them served as the only barricade.

Nobody said this lot had any brains.

Dan stopped five feet shy of the barrier; the lone man stood up from a plastic lawn chair and drunkenly sauntered to the driver’s side of the car. He looked like your garden variety skinhead, spider webs and skull tattoos adorned every piece of skin that Dan could see. Why they only posted one sentry, when the dead were supposedly walking all over the place, troubled Dan.

“Where are you goin...and wish no lights?” the man slurred suspiciously-he was obviously three sheets to the wind.

With as many newcomers as Dan witnessed streaming into town, he thought it might be easier to masquerade as one of them than try to explain who he really was; so he tried to bullshit his way past the inebriated guard. “I was in town trying to find another fifth of whisky. The whole world is our liquor store now...right brother?”

“Thish afternoon we went on a raid two towns over-lotsa booshe. Ganz did stash away the besht stuff for himshelf.” The skinhead took a step closer to the car, trying to get a better look at Dan. “You wash yourshelf. Someone push shome big holes in Mikey Connell. Hish car was still running when they found him dead thish afternoon. What I’m tryin to get through that thick head of yours...what’d you shay yer name ish anyway?”

The kid was falling out. Had himself a little too much sauce. Dan pulled the lock blade knife from his belt and covertly flicked it open. “They call me Grady.” Dan was winging it and hoped the kid didn’t know who he was. “Since Ganz is keeping the high end stuff for himself you want a nip of this Louis the Thirteenth cognac? I found it in some old broad’s closet...after I waxed her ass.” He hoped he wasn’t pouring it on too thick.

The skinhead instantly perked up. “Thaths the shit thaths like, three thousand bucks a bottle ishnt it?”

Fish on;
the Nazi put his elbows on the door and his face in the open window.

“Give it up old man.” The Nazi’s breath smelled like cigarettes and stale beer.

Fully expecting a mouthful of fine spirits, he instead received six inches of tempered steel buried deep into his left eye. The skinhead died with shit in his pants and shit for brains.

Dan left the Nazi where he fell, with the knife still stuck in his head. The wily old mountain man was thirty miles away before anyone discovered the dead sentry.

Outbreak Day 5

Schriever AFB

Colorado Springs, Colorado

Word got around about Annie Desantos’ situation. Captain Gaines needed to round up eleven volunteers to go on the mission. Mike Desantos was so loved in the Special Operations community that there had been no less than fifty other operators wanting to get on board the two Little Birds.

A chalk of Army Rangers and everything else that they needed for the mission was loaded onto a lone Chinook.

***

Brook finally found Captain Gaines holding a clipboard and fine-tuning his mission plan. She asked if she could accompany him on the mission, even implying that it was what Mike would have wanted.

Gaines saw right through her line of bullshit. “
Under no circumstances
,” the Captain told her when she insisted on going. When it was apparent that her pleas weren’t going to work she resorted to telling him he couldn’t possibly know which equipment she needed. Captain Gaines took a deep breath and let her have it with both barrels, “Young lady. I will personally bring back the whole god damned baby factory, anything to bring Mike’s future shooter into this world. Because the Lord knows the human race is going need all of the help it can get.”

After his egotistical speech, the big man left Brook standing speechless and walked directly to the flight line to brief the SOAR aviators.

***

Brook stalled for a few minutes, letting Captain Gaines get a head start. She knew that he was leading the mission personally and would have his hands full getting his ducks in a row.

***

While Brook hid in a shadowy recess beside the Quonset hut used by the pilots for preflight briefings, a pair of C-130s, no doubt bringing more troops home from the sandbox landed noisily nearby.

A man’s booming voice projected through the flimsy double doors. She was certain that it was Captain Gaines spouting the same puff up piece that he laid on her minutes ago. While Brook was fully aware that her friend Annie and her unborn child’s life may well be in jeopardy, the reason for getting the natal equipment was purely insurance against any complications. The Captain made it sound, to anyone that would listen, like they were saving the baby Jesus.

***

The two MH-6 Little Birds sat empty and unattended on the flight line. Brook knew it wouldn’t be feasible for her to covertly hitch a ride on one of them. There really wasn’t anywhere to hide onboard the smaller helicopters. They were favored by the Delta boys for insertions. The Night Stalkers, who piloted the nimble birds, always dropped the operators right on target.

Brook turned her attention to the monstrous Chinook sitting idle beyond the smaller choppers. It was identical to the one that had spirited her and Raven to safety from Fort Bragg. The slight woman nonchalantly walked between the two smaller helicopters and made a beeline for the transport.

Only one person was working inside the CH-47, he entered and exited the craft several times before Brook finally worked up the nerve to make her move. After sprinting to the side of the helicopter, she drew even with the open side door and poked her head inside. Half expecting to get caught, she was delighted to see that the loadmaster had his head down, busy feeding a belt of ammunition into the M240 machine gun.

Brook slithered into the open door and crawled to the inner bulkhead, where she covered her small frame with the nylon straps that would eventually be used to keep the medical gear from jostling around during their return trip.

***

The two loadmasters and the eight man Ranger chalk, had no idea that there was a stowaway in their midst.

Brook’s mind was going a mile a minute but she kept still, she had no idea when to show herself, but when she did she would exercise extreme caution so as not to startle the men with guns,
because these days everyone
seems to have an extremely itchy trigger finger
.

***

From her seat amongst the greasy straps, Brook could feel the vibrations from the thumping twin rotor blades transmitted through the Chinooks thin hull. Even though the flight was supposed to take less than an hour, Brook still fought to stay awake.
Well
, she thought,
no better pick me up than an instant jolt of adrenaline
.

Brook slowly and deliberately, so as not to alert the soldiers sitting nearby, tried to worm from under the heavy gear that had been her hiding place. She suddenly sensed that she was being watched, prompting her to look up. Brook read his nametag. Vasquez had the death dealing end of his black rifle pointed directly at her head.

The Ranger’s intense stare was unnerving, the noise inside the helicopter prevented Brook from hearing the words that were coming from his mouth. She was however able to somewhat read his lips, the message was unmistakable-
Move and you are dead
. Brook took the weapon aimed at her very seriously, nary a muscle twitched for the rest of the flight.

***

The forty-three year old Captain “Ghost” Gaines and his boys sat on the outside of the Little Birds, combat boots dangling in the slipstream and endured the constant buffeting of the cooling mountain air.

For a newbie to high altitudes such as the mile high cities of Colorado Springs and Denver, which was ninety miles to the north, breathing could be difficult at times and headaches were a frequent occurrence. For Captain Gaines the clean, thin air was a welcome relief from the smog he endured as a youth growing up in Southern California.

It was in the city of Compton, hanging out in a friend’s garage, when he held an AK-47 for the first time. Ronnie Gaines was an impressionable youth and he loved the war movies that were constantly being pumped out by Hollywood at the time. The Rambo movies were his favorite. Longing to fire the gun, he begged his friend to take him along so that he would get a chance to pull the trigger. Juwon told him to go home and maybe when he was older he could hang with the “fellas.”

That night Juwon Castle went out, got drunk and fired the very same gun on a crowd gathered after a high school football game. The young banger fully intended to hit some rivals, instead two random bullets found a freshman cheerleader and her father.

As far as Gaines knew, Juwon was still in prison-he received twenty five to life. The events of that day forever changed Ronnie Gaines. In a way he owed his military career to his childhood friend.

For the next three years he shunned the gang lifestyle and focused his energies toward school. Although he caught a lot of shit for studying, he was big enough to defend himself.

Ronnie enlisted in the Army and shipped off to basic the week after he graduated from Crenshaw High.

By the end of the summer he was out of basic. Little did he know that in a few short years he would be a full fledged Ranger chasing the enemy from Kuwait to Basra.

Special Forces training came next and then, a day he will never forget, he was selected for the 10th Special Forces Group. Ronnie Gaines had arrived.

***

Gaines took note of the other two helos. They were flying tight, in perfect formation. He had a hard time deciding who were the more disciplined operators, the SOAR pilots or the men they delivered into the shit. It didn’t matter, for the hospital loomed and he had to get his game face on. From his vantage point he could see dozens of infected looking skyward. The Omega virus had started jumping from infected to healthy citizens only days ago. The ones that reanimated early on were getting riper by the minute. Gaines marveled at the human mind, his was already filtering out the obscene stench wafting up from below. The worst hovels in every third world country each had a unique and different smell associated with them. It had been the same everywhere he deployed; you eventually got used to it.