A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (7 page)

Those good times now seemed a million miles
away and a million years in the past. Those fond memories now
returned yellowed and fuzzy, like an ancient newsreel film
chattering in her brain. Cade had shaken the rust off and was back
to doing what he loved. Part of her—the selfish, self-centered part
that she rarely listened to—wished that the people who were
inadvertently driving a wedge between her and Cade would get eaten
by the dead.

They stopped abruptly in front of the vacant
Family Resource Center, a two-story brick and glass building which
no longer served a purpose. Since the base had become an island in
the midst of the dead, the number of intact families at Schriever
could be counted on one hand, and the resources needed to sustain
everyone else were running dangerously low.

Brook dropped to one knee and looked her
eleven-year-old in the eye.

“What, Mom?” Raven said pensively.

“Your birthday is in two days. Do you
remember the deal I made with you before the bad things started
happening?”

Raven twirled a pigtail between her thumb and
forefinger, lost in thought for a second.

Brook helped her out. “Your Dad and I decided
you could start babysitting without supervision when you turned
twelve... do you remember?”

“What are you getting at Mom?”

“I was hoping you would help Aunt Annie
babysit for a couple of days. She’s going to have a difficult time
with Uncle Mike gone. You and I both know that the twins can be
quite the handful. What do you think... It will be good practice
for when you have a baby brother or sister?”

A dreamy look crossed Raven’s face.

Brook capitalized on the advantage. “So
that’s a yes?”

“Sure Mom. What will
you
be
doing?”

“Helping out in any way I can. You saw what
the cooks are serving, we’re going to need food—seeds to grow food
and fuel.”

Raven had shown incredible moxie during their
harrowing trip from Myrtle Beach, South Carolina to Fort Bragg in
North Carolina. The diminutive girl’s resilience was tempered
further by their flight from the Special Operations base as it fell
to the living dead. But Brook had noticed a change in Raven’s
demeanor. The attack that took place the night before had shaken
her confidence. Her affect seemed flat and her sense of humor had
disappeared.

“Sweetie.”

“Yes Mom.”

“I’m taking you over to the Desantos’
quarters. And then I have to go see the nice Colonel.”

Clapping her hands Raven shouted, “Yeahhh, I
get to see little Mike!”

Chapter 7

Outbreak - Day 10

Schriever AFB

Colorado Springs, Colorado

Elvis stood at the edge of the mass grave. He
stared at the tangled bodies which were engaged in a morbid game of
post mortem Twister, then let his gaze shift to the tons of infill
that would hide them forever.

Not too surprisingly the ancient Anglican
burial prose
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust
had woven its way
into his thinking. For his sake he certainly hoped the finality the
phrase signified held sway over this mass of twice-dead
zombies.

A cloud of fine talc swirled around his head
as he snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

The drop from the hardscrabble edge of the
pit to the surface layer of putrefying humanity was barely five
feet. He picked one of the larger specimens for his landing spot
and then gingerly lowered himself onto the stinking biohazard.

Hope I don’t have any open blisters on my
feet
, crossed his mind, as he let go of terra firma and
entrusted the cadaver to support his entire body weight.
So far
so good
, he thought. It held for a heartbeat, and then with an
unexpected pop his right boot disappeared entirely inside of the
creature’s ample beer belly. The displaced matter looked like
regurgitated lasagna, and the smell was a million times worse as
adipose tissue and greasy yellowed fat erupted around his ankle.
And to add to add insult to injury, before he yanked the boot free,
the fluid had already invaded his sock.
Fuck,
he
thought
,
the flies are going to be dry humping this pair
of boots for days
.

Once he found firm footing, he gophered up to
survey the road which ran east to west paralleling Schriever’s
northern perimeter. He saw none of the telltale dust columns
indicating an approaching vehicle and there were no stray walkers
in the vicinity.
Time to make the doughnuts
. He had already
decided that all extracurricular activities would be performed near
the edge. Setting foot anywhere near the center of the pit which
had been slowly settling since the dump truck driver had deposited
his latest load would be suicide.

Gurgles, hisses and invisible geysers of rank
escaping gasses coupled with the muffled moans and groans emanating
from the area directly underneath his feet kept him on edge.

When picking his victims he didn’t pay too
much attention to the age, sex, or decomposition of the
specimen—what mattered most to Elvis was how close they were to the
edge. The last thing he needed to do was root around among the dead
for any length of time and take the risk of getting bit or being
caught with his hand in the cookie jar—so to speak. He noted the
time.
You’ve got ten minutes Elvis
. Get in and get out—was
the mantra running through his head. Therefore, since he was
already shin deep in the guy’s guts, Fatty would get first honors.
Then the badly decomposed female that Bob’s Big Boy was currently
pressing his flesh against would be sloppy seconds. Lastly, he
would take advantage of the nearby fresh kill. The brunette had
been a looker when alive and wasn’t so bad in death. The slender
zombie had tumbled into the pit, limbs askew, exposing her goods
for the entire world to see. Elvis made a concerted effort to avert
his eyes but found he couldn’t help himself. Something about the
arch of the dead woman’s back combined with her total lack of
clothing tripped the hardwired evolutionary urge which kept him
from looking away. It was decided—she would be his last before
lunch.

Elvis fished a scalpel from his fanny pack
then planted his right knee on Fatty’s sternum. Up close and
personal he noticed that the man’s facial Feng Shui had been
permanently altered by a large caliber bullet. The impact hadn’t
damaged the lower mandible or neck area, but had blown the upper
portion of the Z’s skull, away exposing the intricate chambers and
channels that had once supported a brain.

Using the rounded tip on the razor sharp
scalpel, with one fluid stroke he opened up the cadaver’s neck. The
ease with which the alabaster dermis parted, like gutting a trout,
momentarily reminded Elvis of a trip he had taken with his little
boy years ago. He remembered how Billy had been squeamish and
unwilling to make the first cut. That was how he felt two days ago
after receiving his orders. It hadn’t been easy then, but he had
somehow made that first cut. Now, two days later, he could perform
the procedure with his eyes closed and after this final harvest he
would be finished with his inexplicable task.

As he made his next pass, cutting deeper with
the surgical blade, brackish liquid began to dribble from the
severed carotid artery which had long ago ceased delivering
oxygenated blood to Big Man’s brain. By the time he had finished
his final cut, the incision traced from the cadaver’s left ear,
tracked just above his frigid triple chin and finished its journey
beneath the right ear where earlobe meets neck. Without hesitation
he jammed both latex-covered hands two knuckles deep between the
upper half of the incision and the lower jawbone. Then with an
upward yank, accompanied by a sound akin to shucking an ear of
corn, he peeled the lower half of Big Man’s face—skin, blubber and
all of the attached muscles—up and away from the cranial bone. Next
he folded the flabby mess over Big Man’s gunshot-stunted dome,
leaving unimpeded access to the prizes within.

The rail thin first turn yielded her treasure
much quicker. It took a minuscule amount of scalpel work for Elvis
to peel away her face.
Two down one to go
, he thought.

Before delving into the fresh beauty at his
feet Elvis held statue still and listened for any engine noises.
The only sound, save for the occasional gust of dry air pushing
tumbleweeds, originated from within the grave. He hadn’t even
decided how he was going to explain his foray into the mass of dead
if he were caught in the act. He supposed he’d just drop trou and
pretend he was a sick and twisted Dahmer disciple. No—fuck that.
He’d rather die in a shootout than even pretend for one second he
was a corpse fucker. Necrophilia and cannibalism—without definition
the words alone seemed morbid and evil. He momentarily contemplated
which was worse—fucking the dead or eating them. It didn’t matter,
he finally decided—either way there was a special place in hell for
Jeffrey Dahmer and monsters like him.

Fighting the tug of gravity and a pair of
thoroughly soaked boots, Elvis hauled himself out of the ground,
bellied up to the desert floor and rolled over onto his back. With
the .45 biting into his back he stared up at an azure sky streaked
with wispy horse tail clouds, then, without sitting up, he unzipped
the fanny pack and by feel stuffed the yield from all three
cadavers inside.

He was still enjoying the clouds when the
moaning commenced. The chilling sound sent his neck and arm hairs
standing on end. Hinging upright, he reached behind his back and
had the pistol in hand before he had eyes on the walkers.

An invisible hand clenched his heart when he
spotted the shambling crowd of zombies. A half dozen angled from
the west while at least a dozen were closer and steadily advancing
from the other direction. In all, nearly twenty walkers had gotten
the jump on him and he had only seconds to save his own ass.

The .45 barked twice sending the nearest
creature to the sandy ground—down but still moving.
Shit
! He
could feel his heart rate returning to normal as he made a mental
note to self,
six rounds left
.

Scrambling to his feet he peered over his
shoulder at the dozer sitting twenty feet behind him, and then
stole a glance at the larger cluster of walkers that were about to
cut him off from the Z-proof metal island. Holding the .45 in a
two-handed grip, he crabwalked sideways, keeping the moaning
rotters somewhat on his right flank.

“You sneaky bastards almost got me!” he
shouted.

The intruders snarled and hissed in response
and their pace quickened, as if hearing the fresh piece of meat
talk had an effect.

Ignoring the smaller knot of walkers, which
were still on the far side of the mass grave and posed little
threat, he focused on the leaders of the other pack. With the
initial shock from the ambush wearing off and the effects of the
resulting adrenaline spike having plateaued, his shaky hands
steadied and he began to act solely on muscle memory and
training.

Still moving backwards and away from the
grave, Elvis put the nearest zombie in his sights.

Swishing hypnotically with each clumsy foot
fall, the first turn’s bloody, pus-stained skirt hung from her
gaunt frame like a butcher’s soiled apron. The hissing walker had
closed to within an arm’s length by the time Elvis brought the
Kimber to bear. The gun roared, and at point blank range the .45
caliber bullet found flesh and bone. The energy from the lead
missile plucked her off her feet for a split second before gravity
unceremoniously smacked her back to terra firma where she lay
stilled, a smoking powder-burned hole where her eyes and nose had
been. The second .45 caliber flesh shredder blasted her wingman
through his open mouth. The middle-aged zombie did a whirling
pirouette before landing on his side in the ochre dust with a
gaping grapefruit-sized exit wound leaking brains from the back of
his bald head. Undeterred by the fate of their two fallen
compadres, the remaining eight abominations closed in.

Four shots left
, Elvis reminded
himself.
Not good
.

A cold hand brushed his arm, then gnarled
fingers flexed tightly around his wrist, dead weight tugging. He
whipped his head about only to see, inching closer to his exposed
forearm, the clutching rotter’s colorless lips bared tight over a
yellowed picket of teeth. He put the pistol to the thing’s head and
squeezed off one round.
Three left
, his inner voice warned.
The walker hinged over, an explosion of bone fleck and vaporized
brain sprayed the trailing zombies. Inexplicably the skeletal hand
held fast. Ducking low, boots churning dirt, the former Husker put
his shoulder down and bulled through the right side of the group
still dragging the corpse in his wake.
I knew the P90X was gonna
do more than just get me girls
, he mused as he tried to shake
the corpse from his left wrist. The headshot creature jerked along
the chalky orange topsoil raining brains with each jounce. As Elvis
neared the side of the D9 the dead hand released and in a puff of
fine silt he left the headless corpse in the dust—literally.

Newly unencumbered, Elvis felt like Superman,
like he could leap tall buildings. Cold talonlike fingers swiped at
his gore-covered boots as he leaped onto the tanklike treads,
shredding both knees in the process. Luck was on his side. His
forward momentum had saved his life and he pulled his lower
extremities from the hungry mob and scrambled up—ascending the
tractor’s frying pan hot armor plate. The badly shaken civilian
volunteer sat with his back against the cab letting his breath come
back. “Close but no cigar...
bitches
,” he said as he opened
the door and climbed into the driver’s seat. The dozer started up
with a high pitched whine followed by a belch of black diesel soot.
“You can run but you can’t hide.”