Soldier On: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (23 page)

Hoss was very close to crossing the invisible line Cade had just warned him about. It was apparent the man didn’t know how to observe
or
listen. How this man had passed the bar exam, let alone practiced law mystified him.

 Cade brushed the cobwebs from the window and wiped the husks of dead bugs from the sill. The dormer window was fixed in place and the only way it was going to open was by force. Once again the collapsed butt stock of the M4 came in handy. There was no more need for noise discipline. Cade relieved the window of glass, sending it showering down on the zombies below. Their raspy moans intensified as they became aware of Cade squeezing through the tiny window. The angle was steeper than the front porch but he still managed to scramble around to a safer perch.

Cade assembled the satellite phone and again tried to raise Duncan. On the third ring someone answered and it was Duncan and his familiar southern drawl.

Outbreak Day 6

Camp Williams 19th Special Forces Garrison

Draper, Utah

Duncan Winters awoke from one of his famous nightmares. He hadn’t had a Nam nightmare since the early eighties and this one didn’t feature old Victor Charlie. The young men he had watched climb onto his Huey, full of so much bravado-with a healthy dose of fear thrown in-only to return in a muddy body bag, hadn’t even made a cameo. These new nightmares featured walking corpses, dead kids that he hadn’t gotten to know and endless running. These new nightmares were still front and center the moment he awoke.

Duncan donned his fatigues and splashed his face with cold water. Shaving was out of the question. These days he loathed looking into the mirror. The man who peered back had suddenly aged ten years in only a week. He wore his boonie hat pulled down low over his forehead to avoid eye contact-he didn’t want to get to know anyone; because lately, all of his new acquaintances were prone to dying.

Before he exited his sleeping quarters, he made it a point to take his weapon. The former Army aviator went nowhere without his stubby 12 gauge combat shotgun.

 Only two steps out of the door he recognized the unmistakable report of a MK-19 grenade launcher. The rapid,
thwomp-thwomp-thwomp
, the 40 mm shells made as they left the barrel was unmistakable.

“What’s happening?” Duncan asked a half dressed soldier, obviously on his way to the action.

“
The base is being overrun,
” said the baby faced soldier, his voice trailing off as he continued running towards the action.

Duncan watched the man, one hand held up his unbuttoned pants and the other carried a rifle.

It was a miracle that Duncan had even heard the portable sat phone ringing. He instantly set his weapon aside and frantically felt himself up with both hands searching for the device. After the quick pat down he retrieved the phone from his thigh pocket.

“Duncan here,” he strained to hear the voice on the other end.

“Prairie Fire, Prairie Fire, Duncan it’s Cade, coordinates to follow.”

Duncan knew the term
Prairie Fire
from his time serving in Vietnam. It meant one or more of three things: One, you are in contact with a much larger or superior force. Two, you are completely surrounded or will be. Three, death is imminent. He hoped for Cade’s sake that it wasn’t the latter.

“Copy that, standing by.” Once again Duncan searched his pockets, looking for something to write with. A good aviator always carried a pen. He groped around and finally found a big hunk of white chalk and his well used Sharpie. Meanwhile, Cade had already begun reciting the GPS coordinates.

“Wait one, I wasn’t prepared...can you please start over?”

“Copy that,” Cade’s voice sounded tinny and machine like on the other end. “Coordinates are, 40 degrees, 28 minutes and 3 seconds north. 109 degrees, 55 minutes and 47 seconds west. I’m currently trapped on the roof of a two story house. How copy?”

Duncan scribbled the numbers on his fatigue pants and then repeated them to his friend. He could hear other voices in the background as well as the recognizable sounds of the dead. Cade confirmed the numbers repeated back to him were correct and added, “Look for purple smoke.”

“Copy that amigo. I got
myself
a little Prairie Fire smoldering here.” The aviator retrieved his weapon and headed for the parade ground where the lone Black Hawk sat.

Four successive concussions moved the earth underneath his boots.
Claymores,
the sound meant that things were bad,
very bad indeed.
In Vietnam if you had claymore mines going off on the perimeter of your firebase then it meant one of two things. One, the mines were being used offensively, detonated with a hand crank at the precise time the enemy were in the kill zone to maximize the casualties. Two, the mines had been set up with a tripwire to act as an early warning device and kill any unlucky sapper before he got near the wire.

Constant gunfire was the norm over the last few days. The soldiers had experimented with all of their weapons to thin out the moaning bodies. The Mark 19 grenade launcher was a failure it only peppered their dead flesh with shrapnel. The grenadiers stared in amazement as scores of ghouls fell, only to pop back up and continue on, displaying the same unflappable zombie determination. It was a devastating weapon against living flesh but virtually useless against the dead. Claymore anti-personnel mines and hand grenades were equally ineffective. The supply of ammunition was at dangerously low levels, and aerial resupply wasn’t coming.

Duncan contemplated asking permission from the major before taking the helicopter. The situation at the front gate was deteriorating at such a rapid pace, he feared he would never find Beeson and leave himself enough time to preflight and escape alive. To be fair he would take on as many people as he safely could. He thought back to the fall of Saigon in 1975 and remembered vividly the anguished faces of the South Vietnamese that didn’t make his last flight. That Huey had been so loaded down that he thought he was going to be picking palm fronds out of his ass.

Duncan removed the tie downs from the rotor tips. There was no way that he was going to get atop the big bird to check the “Jesus bolt” so he made sure the tail rotor was sound and the other surfaces looked good. He strapped in and stretched his pant leg so he could clearly see the GPS coordinates. A few flicked switches later the engine whined and the sagging blades started their slow rotation.

Since he was not used to flying the Black Hawk he decided it would be smart to enter the destination into the computer now while on the ground. He didn’t want his attention divided while he piloted the complex piece of machinery. The chicken scratch on his leg was hard to make out, but he felt confident that the GPS numbers were inputted correctly. Duncan took a moment to get familiar with the digital (AFCS) Automatic Flight Control System. He found that there were more buttons to push on the contraption than an ex-wife. When he was finally finished with the flight computer he looked up. Three hundred yards away, at his twelve o’clock, were half a dozen shambling ghouls.

Duncan felt his pulse quicken as his body flooded with adrenaline. Without glancing down he automatically found the collective and goosed the turbine. There was a flash of movement in his peripheral vision. A soldier streaked by followed by several trotting undead. The man abruptly turned and emptied a magazine on full auto into the collection of ghouls. Three fell at his feet. A look of recognition crossed his face and he changed direction, sprinting for the open fuselage of the medevac Black Hawk. Duncan pulled back on power to let the man close the gap.

The undead that escaped his
rock and roll
fusillade continued after him while two more crawled through the blood of their brethren.

Duncan watched until the desperate man was at the door, he launched his frame inside as the Black Hawk lifted from the ground. He could see one of the man’s hands grasping at the canvas belt used to strap in the medical litter while the other flailed for another hand hold. Duncan couldn’t help him; he had to focus on flying the big beast of a chopper. Black Hawks were nothing like a Huey and he constantly had to remind himself of that.

A shriek rang out over the whine of the turbines and the noise of the rotor blades. Duncan glanced back to see one of the monsters receive a face full of combat boot from the screaming soldier. The female zombie’s lower jaw tore free leaving her tongue to loll around in the open hole that used to be her mouth.

“
Persistent motherfuckers, they never give up
.” The man was shouting to be heard over the increasing rotor noise. He started to stomp on the ghouls fingers. It felt absolutely no pain and maintained a vice like grip on the bulkhead. Finally the man’s combat boot won the battle. The monster tumbled thirty feet to the ground, the severed fingers rained down around her writhing body.

Duncan looked through the nose plexi and watched the zombie, dragging its shattered legs in search of fresh meat.

“Strap in, it’s going to get bumpy.” Duncan gave the soldier enough time to get seated and buckled before he banked the Black Hawk and began orbiting the battlefield.

A hundred feet below, the scene was chaotic. Fires raged, muzzle flashes winked, and sporadic explosions buffeted the chopper. The undead were surging around both the front and back of Camp Williams. The west side of the base suddenly brightened up. Row upon row of headlights cut through the haze and smoke of the constant ongoing battle with the undead. It gave Duncan hope for the people on the ground. The base housed more vehicles and weapons than able bodies. He had a tinge of regret for leaving with the only helo, but it couldn’t be avoided. He kept circling looking for survivors in need of help. It appeared that Major Beeson had his troops executing a textbook strategic withdrawal.

Outbreak Day 6

Hanna, Utah

The humidity in the attic was stifling, and outside the day was beginning to heat up. Even the simple act of breathing was becoming a chore. A constant cacophony of sound from below added to their collective misery.

“When does the cavalry arrive?”

“Hoss, even if the cavalry does find us...how are you going to get your big ass through that small window?”

“I was trying to figure out a solution to that...if I stay in this sauna for a few more hours I should lose
some
weight. This is one big deja-vu after spending four days in the attic above my law office.”

The banter continued. Considering their situation, Daymon could think of nothing better to do. “
Four days
...how much did you weigh before the freaks started walking?”

“
Too much
,” Hoss answered dejectedly.

Daymon chuckled at his response.

Cade was probing the ceiling with his dagger and growing tired of the floor show. “I need you two to help look for weak spots, water damage or anywhere that these plywood sheets are compromised.”

Hoss stood hunched over in the confined space and set about in search for a way out.

Daymon sat on his haunches trying to conserve energy. He hadn’t had a drink of water for hours and was feeling it.

Hoss’ voice carried from the other end of the attic, “Over here...someone give me a hand.”

Cade tight roped along the rafters watching his feet to make sure he didn’t step where the insulation had settled. When he got closer, he could see the roof flexing above the big man’s back. Hosford’s stance made him look like a crouching Atlas, only not as svelte. Cade wasn’t the same height as the lawyer so he had to push with his shoulder. The added force popped a row of the nails holding the plywood sheeting to the ceiling joists. Cade worked his knife between the cracks, the roofing paper cut easily but he had to saw the outer layer with the serrated edge of the Gerber. It was slow going; he was only through a few inches of the asphalt shingles. Sweat poured down his face, stinging his eyes.

“I’m gonna put my back into it again,” Hoss said, getting himself situated. He grunted from the exertion and was rewarded with a few more inches of blue sky.

Daymon sidled up adding his back to the efforts. With a prolonged creak and the sound of popping nails the roof opened up some more, allowing them to hear the distant rotor blades beating the morning air.

Hoss rallied the troops; he didn’t want to be the only one left in the attic, unable to fit his carcass through the window when help arrived. The fresh air pouring in the opening was welcome, and invigorated all three of them.

Cade retrieved the canister of purple marking smoke from his side cargo pocket. It was the predetermined color he and Duncan had agreed upon. He pulled the pin and shoved the cylinder through the opening near his head; it rolled down the roof and plunked into the gutter. An angry, purple cloud spewed into the air. Anyone approaching by helicopter would have to be blind not to see it.

Cade put his back against the rooftop, “Big push...all at once.”

With the three of them working together they peeled an entire sheet of roofing, shingles and all free from the joists. The sudden weight leaving his shoulders caused Hoss to lose his balance, one wingtip shoe slipped from the rafter and his entire left leg followed, plunging through the lathe and plaster ceiling into the hallway below. A look of true horror flashed across the man’s face as cold fingers locked onto his dangling extremity.