A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (6 page)

Finally, after passing a half dozen empty,
Olympic swimming pool sized pits carved into the sunbaked earth,
Farnsworth ground the truck to a halt. He surveyed the expanse of
cleared acreage a mile and a half from the safety of the base and
said cheerily, “Here we are. Your chariot waits.”

The fifty ton D9 armored dozer Elvis would be
calling home for the next few hours sat baking in the sun, heat
waves shimmering from its desert tan skin.

“Is it too late to resign?” Elvis deadpanned.
“Just joking, I don’t know why I volunteered... but I’m going to
see this one to the end. Someone’s gotta be a worker among
workers.”

“You are appreciated, Elvis. In fact by
volunteering to do this nasty little detail you’re freeing up one
of the soldiers to go out and kick doors and kill Zs.”

“Lucky guy... or gal... I
suppose
,”
Elvis replied.

“This zone has already been cleared door to
door,” Farnsworth stated with a sweeping motion of his hand. “But
you should never ever let your guard down... stragglers and swarms
are common and can happen anytime and anywhere in Springs. One day
someone’s going to erect a statue honoring the efforts of the door
kickers
and
the Civilian Corps.”

“I’m holding my breath,” Elvis muttered.
Somehow the smart ass comment was lost on Farnsworth as he droned
on.

“Here’s your two-way, it’s got fresh
batteries and it’s tuned to the same frequency as mine. Range on
these—”

Cutting in Elvis said, “Heard the speech
already. The pretty lady ran it by me yesterday and much as I’d
love to hear it again—you just ain’t holding my attention like she
did.” He exited the truck, grabbed his hard hat, ear protection and
work boots from the bed and then slapped the truck’s roof. “Thanks
for the
up
-lift
Farns
,” he added with his thumb
upturned Fonzielike.

“Wait one!” Farnsworth hollered.

Elvis glanced over each shoulder checking for
Zs, then poked his head into the passenger compartment and arched a
brow. He knew more of the spiel was about to be delivered.
Where’s my girl
?

“First rule: Stay in the cage. Do not leave
your cocoon... under any circumstances. Second rule: Keep your
radio on. I’ll be back and forth between the front gate and the
flight line all day. Call immediately if you attract a crowd and I
will be here ASAP,” Farnsworth said.

“Just you?” Elvis blurted, feigning a
startled look. Then for a heartbeat he tried to appear that he was
seriously contemplating getting back into the truck and saying
“
Home James
.
”
But instead he said, “The lady
loaned
me a .45 yesterday... just in case...” He pointed at
the glove box before continuing. “She put it right back in there...
before she dropped me off last night. Any chance it’s still in
there?”

Farnsworth leaned across the seat, punched
the glove box open, and extracted the .45 semi-automatic pistol.
“Take it,” he said, thrusting the weapon butt first in Elvis’s
direction.

Before the Husker fan could voice his
gratitude, Farnsworth’s Motorola beeped announcing an incoming call
which he promptly fielded. “Copy that,” he replied to the person on
the other end. Then he glanced at Elvis and said, “Trucks are on
the way. I’ll be back in about two hours or so with water and
MREs.”

Silence.

While Farnsworth had been blabbing on, Elvis
had been thinking about his parents sitting on the I-80 Bridge,
full of hopes that were so quickly and literally crushed when their
car along with untold tons of concrete and rebar plunged into the
frigid bay.

Still ignoring the soldier, Elvis perused the
sign declaring the tract of land was to be the future site of
Freedom Hills Estates
. He surveyed the comatose subdivision
which sprawled several hundred yards beyond. The dozens of one- and
two-story homes fronted by overgrown lawns sat darkened, lonely,
and uninhabited. Little did he know every house in the zone had
already been cleared of Zs thanks to General Ronnie “Ghost” Gaines
and the door-to-door grid searches performed by the combat hardened
soldiers of the 10th Special Forces Group.

One specific word on the developer’s sign
jumped out at him.
Future
, the six-letter word caused a
morbidly funny thought to cross his mind. He wondered if the
developers had had the foresight to pull a permit allowing
thousands of zombies to be interred on the site. Oh how the
environmentalists would have had a field day with that one.
Employment would have surged among the picketing crowds. And the
fines the local government could have levied. Hell, scrap the
fines, the greedy sons of bitches could have written a whole new
tax code. Elvis shook his head. He didn’t know which was worse: the
shambling, flesh eating living dead or the old guard: politicians
and fat cats who had lived only to strip every last monetary morsel
from the average Joe’s bones.

Steering clear of the gut-encrusted tanklike
treads he climbed atop the bulldozer. The hulking Caterpillar
remained as silent as the Motorola radio. The Husker fan waited
patiently, sipping a water to pass the time.

Soon a house-sized cloud of boiling earth
loomed on the horizon followed by the bass heavy rumble of a
mustard yellow monster-dump truck.

Elvis’s radio crackled, “Incoming dead sled.
Don’t move your machine.”

Mimicking military speak Elvis answered the
unknown man on the other end, “Copy that.”

Backup alarm blaring and belching a dense
black plume of diesel exhaust which did little to mask the stench
wafting from its cargo, the dump truck, which loomed taller than
most houses, reversed to the edge of the tawny gash.

Elvis watched the enormous dump box slowly
hinge back. As soon as the dual gleaming thirty-five foot long
hydraulic pistons reached half extension, putrid corpses began to
spill forth, a dizzying dance of flailing arms and legs ensuing as
the lifeless shells cartwheeled and tumbled like so many dead
whirling dervishes into the pit. The mosh continued until the
hundreds of waxen bodies settled into the massive grave.

Elvis thumbed the call button on the two-way
and craned his neck in order to see the driver perched three
stories in the air. “You workin’ alone today?”

“Just me,” came the driver’s tinny reply over
the radio. He waved a gloved hand and honked a couple of short
cheery sounding toots as he goosed the big diesel and drove
away.

Maybe dude likes his new job,
Elvis
thought as he shot the big driver a salute.
Oh well, to each his
own.

Gears gnashing the dump truck pulled away,
its box trailing a viscous mess; as the dust cloud cloaked the
retreating vehicle, hundreds of ravens descended on the carrion
pile in a blast of black feathers and rushing wind, squawking in
raptor pleasure.

“Gotta fight the birds today,” Elvis muttered
under his breath as he made sure the Kimber was loaded.
One in
the pipe.
He removed the magazine and counted the rounds
through the milled slots in the stamped steel.
Seven in the
grip
. He jammed the pistol home near the small of his back and
leaped from the five hundred horsepower steed. Then he pulled the
red bandanna from his pocket and cinched it tightly so that it
tracked across the tip of his nose, squashing it flat. Now a card
carrying member of the mouth breather’s club, he yelled at the
flying rats. “Move it fuckers. I’ve got a job to do.” His nasal
twanged rebuke had no apparent effect and the birds kept up their
feeding frenzy even as he stepped into their midst.

Chapter 6

Outbreak - Day 10

Schriever AFB

Colorado Springs, Colorado

Mess Hall

“Eww...
what
is that?” Raven squeaked.
Her nose crinkled in disgust as she recoiled from the scoop of
brown substance clinging to the cook’s industrial-sized spoon.

“These are grits m’lady,” the airman replied.
He looked exhausted, and judging by the bags under his eyes and the
days’ old bristle on his face, sleep and hygiene had taken a back
seat to more important things. “I usually whip up Eggs Benedict
when royalty is present but I’m short a few ingredients... do you
want the
grits
or not?”

Still pissed from her verbal spar with Cade,
Brook unloaded on the man behind the glass sneeze shield. “Listen
a-hole
... my daughter is eleven. You wasted that smart ass
Eggs Benedict crack; it went way over her head, but not mine. And
considering the circumstances I might have let that slide if you
were addressing me... but you weren’t and you
cannot
talk to
my
kid like that.”

Suddenly at a loss for words—especially snide
remarks—the man gaped, still clutching in his ham-sized hand a
spoonful of paste hovering over Raven’s tray.

The airman had unwittingly set off a mini
Vesuvius. Neck and face flushing to red, Brook slapped her empty
tray down and clenched her fists. “Apologize to her or I
will
come back there and make you.”

“
I’m sorry
young lady... and ma’am.
It’s been a long stretch,” the cook replied awkwardly as he
carefully spooned the food onto Raven’s tray. And as an amends for
his rudeness he added, “The color is just the brown sugar we added.
We ran out of the white granulated days ago.”

While Brook’s skin tone crept back to normal,
she willed her right hand open and examined her palm. Blood seeped
from four half-moon shaped puncture wounds, the culmination of a
week’s worth of stress and a few seconds of release. Unbeknownst to
the cook, his smart ass comment had set in motion a chain of events
that could not be recalled, because in those few short seconds
Brook had realized what she needed to do. She had finally made up
her mind that protecting her girl was the first priority and had
been since that surreal day in Myrtle Beach when Raven accidently
witnessed her mom shotgun Grandma. Brook had come to the conclusion
that protecting wasn’t the same as hovering and babying. She wasn’t
a “helicopter parent” —in fact she loathed them in the old world
and she wasn’t about to become one in the plague-infected new
world. She would be doing Raven a disservice. Furthermore she had
come to the conclusion that providing for Raven was the same as
protecting her with a weapon. And with Cade’s absence she was going
to have to go outside the wire and help out wherever she was
needed. With winter around the corner and the dead beginning to
migrate, the only thing that she was certain of was her family’s
need for food and medical supplies.

Forcing a half smile Brook said to the cook,
“Apology accepted.”

Looking somewhat relieved the cook nodded and
went about doing his job.

Brook steered Raven to a nearby table and
they sat down to eat.

“Mom’s going to see the Colonel when we’re
finished here.”

Raven looked up from her food, “Are we
shooting again?”

“No sweetie... Mom’s going to be doing some
volunteer work. There might be shooting involved, but just for me.
You will be with Annie’s family... OK?” Brook cocked her head to
look Raven in the eye. “OK?”

A tight smile flashed across Raven’s face.
“I’m used to Dad being gone... I guess it won’t hurt if you go for
a while. But you are tucking me in tonight... right?”

Somewhere, outside of the wire a diesel
engine coughed to life and roared to a crescendo. Burying the dead,
Brook thought, a job she wouldn’t wish on anyone. But if that’s
where Shrill ultimately said she was needed, then that’s where she
would gladly report.

With more urgency, Raven repeated her
question. “
Mom... are... you... tucking ...me… in
tonight?”

“Of course I am honey.”

“Are you gonna get mad at Dad again tonight?”
pressed Raven.

Obviously Raven was a little worried over the
family conflict, so Brook chose her words carefully. “Raven... what
is the most important thing?”

“
Family
,” she replied forcefully and
without hesitation.

Brook beamed inwardly. Since the day Raven
could grasp the concept of family, she and Cade had drilled this
simple tenet into her. Brook was also proud of the fact that she
answered a question with a question, thus avoiding having to think
about what she was going to say to Cade until the time came.
Although she thought she had enough conviction and intestinal
fortitude to really confront him, in the back of her mind she knew
one rare smile from the big bad Delta boy had been known to derail
even her best laid plans.

A long drawn out fusillade of small arms fire
resounded from the burial detail’s general direction.
Anything
but that
, Brook thought as more shots rang out.

Brook had learned early on that as a parent
you didn’t always
have
to answer every question submitted to
you by your kids. “Come on sweetie, time to go,” Brook said, one
hand gripping Raven’s, the other cradling the ever-present M4
carbine at low ready. Staying alert, her head constantly moving,
“on a swivel” is how Cade described it, she scanned every shadow
they passed, wondering how many more like Pug were on the base and
waiting for the opportunity to create more mayhem. And though she
didn’t know how the damage wrought by one lone man could be
eclipsed—she was keenly aware, as the old saying went—
where
there is a will, there is a way
.

Traversing the parade ground, Brook let her
guard down a bit to reminisce about her home in Portland and the
perfect fifteen-month sliver of bliss sandwiched between two life
altering events: Cade walking away from Delta, followed by the
Omega virus, which spread like wildfire, changing everything in a
matter of days.

Fifteen months prior Cade had finally
returned from the
sandbox
for good—or so Brook thought. He
was whole in mind and body, and in just a few short weeks she saw
signs that he was reverting back to the
old
Cade. With his
mind no longer
down range
, his demeanor was slowly making
the transition from alpha warrior to family man.