A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (8 page)

The statement came to fruition for the dozer
driver as the zombies, eyes locked on the meat driving the tractor,
walked right into the path of the four foot tall blade. After three
passes, all fourteen of the former humans were reduced to a dirt
coated gray pulp.

Elvis let the D9 idle as he looked at his
handiwork, amazed that the only evidence of the zombie swarm that
had nearly killed him were scraps of flesh and bone embedded in the
tractor’s treads.

***

One hour and forty-five minutes later.

The dirt-ensconced GMC crunched to a halt,
and after the pursuing dust tail swirled into nothing Farnsworth
slid out. “Bet you’re about ready for these,” he said, holding up a
liter of bottled water in each hand.

“Just what the doctor ordered,” replied
Elvis, who was sitting with his back against the driver door
scarfing down an MRE, while taking full advantage of the minimal
shade cast from the small cube shaped roof of the upper cab.
“Worked me up quite a thirst,” he added between bites.

Farns paced to where the edge of the pit had
been and planted his hands on his hips. He surveyed the darker
patch of packed earth and the cross hatch patterns left by the
dozer’s crushing tracks. “You weren’t shitting me when you said you
knew how to operate a tractor... man you work quickly!” he said as
he tossed the bottled waters up one at a time.

“Ain’t getting an hourly,” Elvis said, a grin
cracking his features. “I would have stretched the job out a little
if I was on the clock. As it is I had some visitors that slowed me
down a bit... but I took care of them,” Elvis intoned, shooing the
flies from his detritus-caked boots.

“Another load is inbound from downtown
Springs.”

With a slight cant of his head Elvis asked,
“Is the situation improving?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what
downtown is like.”

“Try me,” Elvis challenged.

“Give me a second. I have to get something
from the truck and then I’ll give you the Cliffs Notes
version.”

Farnsworth returned from the GMC carrying a
small yellow device in one hand and clutching his Beretta with the
other. He punched a button and the device powered on with a shrill
beep, then began emitting a constant symphony of static, chirps,
and clicks.

“Is that what I think it is? Elvis asked.

“It’s an RDS-80A Contamination Survey
Meter—in military talk. Or in layman’s terms—a Geiger counter.”

“You are checking me for
radiation
?”
Elvis said slowly.

“Sorry. New orders from Colonel Shrill,”
Farns proffered as he passed the noisy plastic device over the
civilian’s entire body.

Elvis’s eyes widened as if he had just
correctly answered the Final Jeopardy question and won an
all-expenses paid trip to Hawaii, “The other night... air raid
sirens, then those two
really loud
blasts to
north—
nuclear
?”

Farnsworth grabbed the civilian by the
shoulder and turned him around avoiding eye contact. “No comment,”
he stated firmly as he finished checking the man for excess
radiation.

Nuclear
, Elvis thought grimly.
And
I was knee deep in the fuckers
.

“All done, you’ve got trace amounts... we all
do. Like I was saying—you gotta be careful. Some of the walkers
have been showing up burnt to hell and very hot with radiation. At
least you didn’t get a dose from the stiffs you just buried.”

Relief replaced concern as Elvis continued
mining the Private for information. “So tell me about downtown.
When are we going to be free from the dead? When are they going to
fall apart and not be able to stalk us?”

“Well... the shooters have all of the ammo
they need to finish the job. Thanks to the depot mission they now
have half a million rounds of 5.56 NATO and half that much in
various other calibers. The ammunition was earmarked for our guys
in the sandbox... they won’t be requiring it now. It is stunning
how few came home after this shit started,” said Farnsworth, “and
as far as the creatures deteriorating… The doctor who was killed
two nights ago concluded that the decay process is slowed down in
the living dead’s flesh.”

Elvis took a long draw off of his water then
pressed, “How do they get the staggering number of kills without
getting wiped out themselves?”

“Listen... you’re a civilian. I shouldn’t be
divulging this much to you. This is between you and I... make sure
everything you hear stays here—agreed?”

“Mums the word,” said Elvis, pantomiming
locking his mouth and then throwing away an imaginary key.

A distant drone sounded from the far side of
Schriever.

“Hercules going out on a foraging mission,”
Farns said looking skyward.

The engine sounds rose in volume becoming a
deafening roar as the dappled gray turboprop skimmed overhead,
climbing swiftly away from the base.

Farns tracked the four-engine plane with his
eyes then resumed talking when the refueling tanker was out of
earshot. “The echoing gunfire keeps the dead interested during the
day. After dark the SF boys fire up the searchlights... that keeps
them coming in all night. Snipers change long guns every thirty or
forty rounds so the barrels don’t get too hot. The bodies pile up
fifteen feet or so then the Little Birds and Chinooks come in and
airlift the whole operation to another high rise a few blocks away.
While the action is drawing the dead to the new spot, cleanup
crews—mostly civilians like you—come in and load the dead sleds.”
Farnsworth suddenly went silent and gazed towards Pikes Peak. “I
wouldn’t wish that job on anyone... we lose one or two a day. All
those dead aren’t really
dead
. The fuckers have started
playing possum.”

“No way!” Elvis said incredulously.

Farnsworth said nothing.

Elvis continued shaking his head, eyes
closed, thinking about the ramifications. “So why bury them here
and not closer to the city?”

“Eventually everyone is going to move back
downtown and the surrounding suburbs. This is a better place than
most I guess.”

The Motorola squawked, breaking the silence.
Farnsworth conferred with the voice on the other end then said to
Elvis, “The sled is inbound—
be careful
.”

No shit
, Elvis thought as a chill
traced his spine. “I’m getting back inside right now.” He banged on
the armor to get Farnsworth to look up. Then he asked in a low
voice, arched eyebrows conveying his concern. “
Playing
possum
?”

The thunderlike noise of the dump truck
rolled over the horizon.

“
Be careful
,” stressed Farnsworth once
more.

With a latex-covered thumbs up Elvis
answered, “Roger that,” and after double checking the door lock he
fired up the dozer. The comforting throaty rumble masked the sound
of the approaching yellow meat wagon.
Time to make the
doughnuts
, Elvis thought to himself.

Chapter 8

Outbreak - Day 10

Schriever AFB

Colorado Springs, Colorado

Brook stood before Colonel Cornelius Shrill’s
private office, wrestling with her emotions while at the same time
trying to summon enough courage to rap on the door.

As if somehow sensing her presence the
Colonel hauled the door inward and boomed a warm welcome. “Well,
well missus Grayson. Please come inside. To what do I owe this
pleasure?” he asked, ushering her in with a sweeping motion of his
winglike arm.

Brook swept her gaze around the base
commander’s office as she stepped inside. Plaques and framed
decorations earned during the man’s long lived Air Force career
covered the office’s four walls.

Before the Colonel could offer her a chair
Brook blurted, “I want to cut to the chase, Sir.”

“What do you need?” he asked in his low
baritone voice. “Anything you need... considering all that your
husband has done—”

“This has nothing to do with Cade. This is
all about me,” Brook said, letting the statement hang for a tick.
“I need to do something useful—to feel like a part of this
struggle. Cade’s gone—or he will be soon. I want a
mission
.”

“What about Raven?”

“I’m getting her ready,” said Brook, a look
of intensity burning in her eyes. “For the day that will come when
she is alone... when she will be
forced
to fend for herself.
You know as well as I do...
nothing
is guaranteed these
days.”

“I think I worded that wrong,” said Shrill as
he paced to the wall and gazed at a photo positioned prominently on
the wall at his eye level. In the picture the Colonel, in full
dress uniform, ribbons, medals and all, had his arm around the
shoulder of a much younger African American man.

Brook stole a closer look. Shrill and the
other man, who was wearing a flight suit and holding a helmet in
the crook of his arm, were standing in front of a U.S. Navy fighter
jet. Broad smiles creased both of the men’s faces. Brook guessed
the photo commemorated a very special moment in both Shrill’s and
the pilot’s life. “Is that your son?”

“Affirmative.”

“When was that taken?”

“Seconds after I had informed him he was
going to Miramar on his own merit.”

“Miramar...” Brook had heard of the Naval Air
Station which was in San Diego. “Top Gun school—very
impressive
.”

Silence.

“You would have
never
left him would
you?” Brook asked.

The Colonel’s face softened when he answered.
“What I meant when I said—
What about Raven
... I was just
being nosy... wanted to know who you are leaving her with while you
are gone?
Not—why in the hell are you abandoning your little
one
?”

“Sorry I took it that way. Raven is with
Annie Desantos right now—so technically Annie will be the
responsible party.”

“And she’s OK with that?”

Brook’s eyes narrowed. “Who, Raven or
Annie?”

“The new mom who also happens to be a newly
widowed mom, that’s who.”

Brook took a deep breath. “They are both
willing parties. Annie’s a hell of a fighter, but she’s no
superwoman. She could benefit from the presence of an overachieving
eleven-year-old and Raven needs to learn some
self-sufficiency.”

“I concur,” Shrill proffered.

“Where do you need me?” Brook asked.

“They always need help with Z disposal
outside of the wire. Burial detail—”

Brook testily interrupted, “What else?”

“Not enough adrenaline in that one?”

“Too much stink,” Brook said, holding her
nose.

“Get down to the motor pool,” said Shrill. He
looked at his watch and then shot a disappointed look Brook’s way.
“The foraging convoy left an hour ago, and the grave diggers are
already outside of the perimeter.”

“Tomorrow?” Brook asked with a pleading
look.

“If you insist,” he said in a funereal voice.
“Make it to the motor pool tomorrow before noon.”

“Once again... Thank you Colonel.”

Shrill said nothing as he strode to his
desk.

Confused, Brook looked on.

On a sheet of legal pad the Colonel scrawled
a few illegible words, then added at the foot of the page what
Brook assumed was his John Hancock. “Take this to Staff Sergeant
Lafayette. He’s 10th Special Forces Group—you know the patch.
Besides there is no way you could possibly miss him. The man is
solid
in my book. Good as they come, and I’m certain he
knows Cade from before.”

“Before?”

“Prior to Z day,” Shrill offered. He caught
himself staring at the army wife, trying to determine why he
suddenly felt so indebted to the petite woman. Then like a bolt
from the heavens it suddenly dawned on him where the sudden feeling
of kinship stemmed from.

“What?” Brook asked.

“I see a lot of similarities between my son
and you. His burning desire to succeed and be the best... at
everything he tackled. Collin’s bravery and tenacity had been
evident before he took his first step. As an adult he just wanted
to be accepted as an aviator—no different than any other Hornet
driver in a very competitive environment vastly underrepresented by
young men who looked like him. Nevertheless I have to be honest
with you. I owe you and Cade that much. The real reason I feel
compelled to furnish you with a mission outside the wire...”

Looking up, past the dark bags and into
Shrill’s red rimmed eyes Brook cut in, “Why, then?”

“We already have a contingency in place for
anyone who gets bit in the field. It’s pretty cut and dried—a
permanent
fix,” Shrill said soberly. “You, little lady, are
a
nurse
. Your skills are in high demand—and there aren’t a
whole lot of people left who have worked in
any
capacity in
the field of medicine. Besides I already know you can shoot—seen it
myself. But if anyone gets a non-life threatening injury—I expect
you to help them out.” Shrill’s disarming smile left his face and
he said sternly, “Nurse first... shooter second—after all of the
bandaging is done... OK?”

The perceived sentiment, and the tone in
which he had delivered it bothered Brook for a fleeting second.
Then just as quickly as the emotion swelled in her she let it ebb
and nodded—accepting his offer.

“That
tardy
note I gave you didn’t
have any specifics... it just said to give you a
shooter’s
job. He’s going to probe... bust your balls a bit.” At that Shrill
winced and cast his eyes at the well-worn carpeting. “Sorry ‘bout
my choice of words... I figured I’d leave it up to you to divulge
to the sergeant whatever information you feel is pertinent.” And
after a moment of contemplation the Colonel added, “He won’t know
about you and Captain Grayson’s relationship—at least not from what
I
scrawled on the note.”