A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (25 page)

With one foot hovering over the abyss, Ted
steeled himself to follow through and hopefully have his questions
answered.

Knock knock.

“Go away Sasha,” Ted said, wiping his eyes
with the back of his hand.

Knock knock.

Though she had tried to cheer him up during
his two day self-imposed sequestration, even going so far as
bringing him food, he had definitely had enough of her incessant
advice-giving and chatter.
For Christ’s sake
, he had asked
himself.
Who was the shrink here?

Knock knock.

“I couldn’t give two shits about
Bella
and
Edward
,” Ted bellowed at the door. “Furthermore, I hope
whoever invented those characters got eaten by those things out
there.” He should have left it at that and stepped out of this
fucked up dead world—instead he waited for Sasha’s snotty
response.

A muffled male voice said through the door,
“I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about sir. My name is
Davis and I
need
to talk to you... May I come in?”

As the metal creaked under his weight,
inexplicably he heard Sasha’s voice invade his head.
Do not
invite him in. If a vampire doesn’t have your blessing then he
can’t cross the threshold
. Followed by William’s prophetic
words resounding in his skull,
If you do it this way they will
find you bug eyed and blue with the contents of your bowels in a
puddle under your swinging corpse
. Then,
You are fucking
going crazy, Ted,
his own voice informed him.

“Arrrggghh!—Give me a minute... I’m not
decent!” Ted shouted. He removed the noose, stowing it over the
flimsy two-by-four rafters.
Pussy, chickenshit, fucking
failure—you can’t do anything right.

Ted kicked the chair, sending it screeching
along the plywood floor. It hit the canvas wall with a hollow
thwop,
collapsed in on itself and hit the floor flat with a
metallic bang.

Knock. Knock.

“Everything alright in there?”

Can’t a guy even fucking kill himself
already
? Ted tore the door open and snapped, “What do you
want?”

Standing at the threshold and looking up at
Ted, Airman Davis methodically removed his camouflage patrol cap
and waited a heartbeat to compose himself before he spoke.

Dressed in a dirty sweat stained tee shirt
and checked pajama bottoms, standing half a foot taller and packing
at least a hundred more pounds than Davis’s five-foot-eight inch,
one hundred sixty pound frame, the fully bearded man filling the
doorway cast an intimidating first impression. The only thing that
was missing, Davis thought, was a flannel shirt and a big blue ox.
“Major Freda Nash sent me. She requests that you return with me to
the security pod,” said Airman Davis, seeing the worry creep onto
Ted’s face.

Crinkling his brows, Ted thought to himself,
Security pod... am I in trouble
? Then he said menacingly,
“And if I don’t?”

“We won’t be taking you against your will if
that’s what you’re thinking,” Davis replied, nodding his head
slightly and looking Ted in the eyes where instantly he noticed a
change in the big man. The look of total defiance suddenly morphed
into concern. Then Davis continued, “This is a matter of
national security
—your
expertise
is needed.”

Ted shifted his weight nervously between
feet. His curiosity piqued, he replied, “
Expertise—national
security...
let me guess—the President needs her own personal
head shrinker.”

“No sir... but someone you know does.”

“Who?”

Airman Davis stood his ground. “You will find
out soon enough—you still coming?”

“Let’s go,” Ted said brusquely as he covertly
tucked the poignant picture of him and Will into his pocket.

Chapter 27

Outbreak - Day 11

Jackson Hole, Wyoming

Daymon left Lu Lu parked at the end of a
little used fire road behind a large stand of trees where her
abnormal green hue would be hidden from view. Then, bent at the
waist, he cautiously padded the twenty or so yards to the rusty
barbed wire fence. Spying his target, he sank to his knees, then
flattened to his belly and settled in to wait.

***

He had been laying stone still next to a
gnarled fence post accompanied by only by the sound of brittle
grass stalks rustling in the gentle afternoon breeze when he heard
the familiar engine sound and then recognized the SUV as it came
bouncing over the pasture, churning up divots of sod covered soil.
It was the same vehicle that had passed him by earlier in the day
in the valley—dark green, shiny, and new. The British made Range
Rover looked as out of place in the middle of the elk refuge as did
the small Asian man and his elderly white friend that Daymon had
been monitoring for the past half hour. Daymon adjusted the focus
ring. He was certain the fit looking, dark haired man who had
stepped out of the vehicle was Ian Bishop, the man Gerald had told
him about. Then the puzzle pieces locked in place. The old dude, as
he had suspected, was in fact Robert Christian and the other man
was an assistant or some sort of hired help. What he wouldn’t have
given for a high powered sniper rifle at the moment. The shotgun
and crossbow were in his rig—they would both be useless at this
range. So now that he had faces to pin on the names, the odds of
finding Heidi had just improved drastically.

***

Bishop pulled his Range Rover up next to the
boss’s shiny black Cadillac Escalade. He scanned the surroundings.
Satisfied there were none of the vile creatures in the vicinity, he
emerged from the SUV’s supple leather interior. The scene in front
of him didn’t seem at all unusual from half a dozen yards, after
all, his boss had been taking at least one meal a day in
his
valley since Ian and the men of Spartan International had taken
total control of Jackson Hole just days after the outbreak. Bishop
distinctly remembered his boss explaining to him then how the early
settlers of Jackson Hole enjoyed supping in the open, ringed by the
Tetons—therefore the practice of dining al fresco among cow turds
somehow seemed romantic to President Robert Christian.

The detail and preparation put into the
lavish spread became more evident to Bishop as he walked
forward.

In the center of the folding mahogany table,
bright as a solar flare in the afternoon sun, sat a triple tiered
oval serving tray festooned with dainty sandwiches, pastries, and
scones. Arranged like sentries around the two foot high lazy Susan
was an elaborate multi-piece sterling silver tea set which was also
polished to a high luster.

You have got to be kidding me,
Bishop
thought to himself.
Afternoon Tea
in the fucking elk refuge.
With a wan smile pasted on his face, he slung his M4 over a
shoulder. Barely able to keep the thought of how absurd all of this
was—with the walking dead amassing a few miles down the road—he bit
his tongue and approached his boss.

“Did you get rid of the firecracker?”

“Yes sir.”

“Real fighter, that one, it’s a shame she
didn’t like the asphyxiation game.”

“Well... she’s no longer
your
problem.”

“How goes the
stand
at the bridge,”
Christian inquired indifferently.

“For now it is what it is—a
stand
.
Soon to be our last
stand
if we do nothing. And unlike the
Sioux at Little Big Horn, these things are
not
going to be
satisfied with only our scalps,” Bishop proffered.

With a bite sized tuna sandwich poised near
his lips, Christian looked up and said icily, “I didn’t ask for
your History Channel interpretation Ian.
I want facts
.”

“My men are very low on ammunition. We are
losing more civilian conscripts each day... many of them just
disappear into the woods when they’re supposed to be taking a piss.
Three defected in broad daylight yesterday...”

“Did you make
examples
out of
them?”

Bishop looked around as if someone who might
pass judgment at a later date were eavesdropping on their
conversation. “I strung them up early this morning. We’re not only
running out of bullets... but we’re running out of crosses
also.”

“Build some more—”

“The carpenter building them for me
disappeared... can’t really blame him if he left on his own accord
though—hell, he couldn’t even set foot outside of his front door
after word got out about what he was making in his shop. Truth is,
he probably got snatched up by the other Essentials and he’s dead
and buried in a backyard by now. Besides, Robert... we cannot
afford to make
examples
of people any longer. We need living
breathing bodies. The extent of the infestation is staggering. I-89
is a natural conduit from the south. The dead are coming. I’m not
exaggerating. I sent out several helicopters to recon the roads
this morning. The pilot who followed 189 was white as a sheet as he
gave me his report. I think your vision for NA is going to have to
take a back seat for a short time. The survivors are close to
insurrection, I suppose.”

“What is your expert opinion? What steps do
we take to ensure my vision comes to fruition and move NA
forward?”

”We need to slow down. My men are spread too
thin. I recommend we pull back and regroup—our survival is at stake
if we don’t.”

“
Tran,
more Dom Perignon...
now
,” the silver haired eccentric shouted, waving a
champagne flute in the air. “Bishop—I need more details out of
you.”

He’s fishing for the one positive nugget
to cling to
, Bishop surmised. “I trust my pilot’s report.
Besides... I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The tide of walkers isn’t
ebbing,” he said, shaking his head slowly side to side, “fact is,
more of them are showing up hourly. One of my guys has been going
over the barrier and taking wallets off of the dead walkers.”

“What the hell did he do a fool thing like
that for? If he needed a new wallet there’s a Gucci store on Main
Street in town.”

Ignoring the comment from his out of touch
boss, Bishop went on. “We checked the identification and found that
most of the dead are coming from Salt Lake City and the surrounding
areas in Utah, but a good number are from as far south as Nevada.
There were thousands of tourists in Jackson Hole when the virus
surged. Gas stations went dry within hours. A good number of the
dead—but not the majority I suspect—are those same tourists who
choked the roads trying to leave and then took over the rest areas
and campgrounds when their cars died and they realized getting home
wasn’t going to happen.”

After a moment of uneasy silence, Robert
Christian drained his Dom Perignon and bellowed for more.

Bishop raised his voice in order to get
through the alcohol clouded shroud of denial that seemed to have
left his boss unable to face reality, much less make a simple
decision. “The walkers are moving in packs,” he said, allowing a
second for that to sink in. “Big fucking packs...
herds
.”

Christian continued to pick at his food,
popping a mini croissant into his mouth. “Wonderful meal
Tran...”

Tran merely nodded and kept his eyes locked
on the ground.

“Continue,” Christian implored, dabbing his
lips with a stark white linen napkin.

“I have the bridge rigged with explosives,”
Bishop admitted.

“Who gave you permission? First the nukes and
now this, I’m beginning to question your loyalty.” Christian’s
voice was icy.

Bishop said nothing.

“How in the hell are we going to cross the
river if we have no bridge? No... The bridge is off limits. That is
final,” Christian said, fixing bloodshot eyes on the man he was
finding harder to trust with each passing second.

Bishop strode closer to the table and said
slowly and confidently, “I’m finished asking permission.”

Robert Christian froze mid bite and pivoted
his head slowly. His watery eyes—burning with laserlike
intensity—probed Bishop.

Matching Christian’s glare, Bishop laid out
his ultimatum—and for all he cared the loony fucker could take it
or leave it. “I sent my men to the Air National Guard base near
Boise to search for ammunition. They flew out an hour ago... if
they come back empty the men holding back the dead will have no
other choice than to drop the span into the Snake River and retreat
into town. If it comes to that I’ll come get you... but if you hear
an explosion and you can’t raise me on the radio or the Iridium...
assume the worst has happened and you are on your own.”

Bishop paced a few steps, giving thought to
the ramifications of abandoning Jackson Hole. The Humvees, Bradleys
and other assorted military hardware sitting near the airport would
be lost, but seeing as how the vehicles were nearly out of fuel and
had little ammo left, losing them wouldn’t be a harsh blow. “Your
G6 is fueled. I already alerted the pilots... give them a five
minute heads up and they can have their preflight done and you will
be wheels up. I cannot stress this enough—you
must
get to
the airport as soon as possible.”

“What happened to
our
army?”

“I’m losing men nightly at the barrier. I
lost a good kid last night. I have sent half of my men over the
Teton pass to recon west of here. We will need a safe place to
retreat to when... I mean
if
Jackson falls.” Bishop
grimaced. Bad time for a Freudian slip, he thought to himself.
Certainly Christian had noticed. “Following
your
orders—I
sent the others out in smaller patrols. They were the troops who
set up the garrisons that—once again—
you
ordered.”

“And my
garrisons
... just call them
back.”