Authors: Shawn Chesser
“Where are you coming from... Pug?” Ted probed. For some reason calling a grown man Pug made him uncomfortable.
“I was setting up Breck for the winter. Getting the lifts squared away... all that jazz,” Pug lied. He had never been to Breckenridge--or on a pair of skis for that matter.
“Breckenridge is overrun?” Wilson said sadly. “That
was
my favorite ski hill,” he muttered under his breath. He stared through the windshield wishing all of this were just a bad dream. Far ahead, on the horizon, he glimpsed two moving beams of light stabbing towards the heavens. It looked like a couple of white light sabers cutting the rapidly darkening sky. “Mister Pug. Did you see that... the lights up ahead?”
The driver tore his eyes from Sasha’s bare legs and stared straight ahead. “No son, I missed it. If you spot it again let me know,” he answered sheepishly. “And son... you can call me Pug. Mister just makes me feel old.”
If the shoe fits
, Wilson thought. He didn’t know what it was but he was beginning to get a strange feeling about this guy.
Outbreak - Day 8
National Elk Refuge
Jackson Hole, Wyoming
“They’re aware of us now. I recommend we wrap this up,” said Ian Bishop, former Navy SEAL, and current head of Spartan International, which was the private army funded and now deployed by the Guild.
“Please wait... I would like to finish my brunch first,” Christian said as he plunged a dainty sterling silver spoon into his three minute egg, scooped out a dollop of nearly firmed yolk and moaned in delight. “Bring me more champagne,” he ordered, waving the crystal flute in Ian’s personal space, his little finger at attention in a display of aristocratic savior-faire as he danced the glass back and forth in the air.
The wind shifted, bringing with it the foul odor of rotten flesh.
The muscular warrior pressed the binoculars to his face and slowly panned the entire length of the perimeter fence to be sure none of the creatures were close enough to pose a threat. Then he pulled the Dom from the ice bucket and, in a ritual he had seen Christian’s now dead assistant perform countless times, he dried the water rivulets from the bottle before refreshing the champagne. To Ian it was becoming clear that his boss was totally and irrevocably drunk with power. The Dom Perignon only made his actions harder to predict. Ian couldn’t fathom why the man wanted to take his meal at the edge of the largest elk refuge in North America in the midst of the majestic Grand Tetons while fully surrounded by zombies, but he was used to following the man’s sometimes eccentric orders and he did so without hesitation.
“Take all of this and leave us,” Christian barked at his personal chef while making a sweeping gesture with his hands. Ian noted the sudden mood swings had become more frequent and intense. In the years he had been involved with the Guild and worked for Mr. C he had also grown used to putting up with his boss’ minor vacillations in temper. It could be stress from the myriad things Mr. C could no longer control, he thought, so he filed it away to be pondered at a later date.
Tran cleared the china and service with a quiet efficiency learned from years of working for the billionaire king maker. Then he carefully folded the starched linen tablecloth and stowed the folding teak table, along with the dirty dishes, in the back of the Dark Green Range Rover.
The head of the Guild called for his chef.
With his head hanging slightly, the tiny Asian man returned and stood silent before the taller silver-haired man. He was fighting a losing battle to remain standing. The looming anxiety attack pressed against his lungs. His racing heart pounded against his sternum, fighting to escape like a caged animal.
“Thanks to you Tran, the eggs were exquisite as always.”
The chef regained his composure, stuck out his chin, and with great relief manufactured the biggest toothy smile he could muster, yet he still kept quiet. The help were never to speak to Mr. C unless they were ordered to do so. Tran let his gaze wander over his boss’ shoulder and fall on what remained of Fredrick. The Scandinavian-born man was once a handsome thirty-year-old, with fair skin, blue eyes and dirty blond hair. The bloated zombie used to be first assistant to Mr. C... until he spoke without permission. Tran recognized Fredrick, but not any of the other monsters on the far side of the fence, but he did know how they ended up in there. Every single one of them had done something to cross Mr. C--who had seemingly become angrier by the day. Tran wondered if the old man was host to a brain tumor and secretly wished it were true.
There were over one hundred “examples” milling around, and as the days wore on and more people decided they didn’t like being forced to stay in Jackson against their will, the number of zombies populating the elk refuge swelled. The main road passed close by so the living dead on the refuge grounds became a dire warning reminding everyone in Jackson to toe the line.
One day after the Guild’s private jets landed and the Spartan army rolled into Jackson Hole, a handbill was posted at the town’s square, a small park festooned with towering arches constructed entirely from the elk antlers that had been collected over the years from off of the ground inside the refuge. Spelled out on the official decree from the Guild were the rules which were many and unreasonable. The exodus began the next morning. The bodies of those bold enough to try to leave began piling up moments later. A bullet to the brain had been a proven deterrent against defectors until recently.
“Mr. Tran. For dinner I would like Beef Wellington. And please decant the best Bordeaux in the cellar. A brunette for after dinner would be appropriate, don’t you think?”
Tran nodded.
Once again Christian waved the man away.
“Mister Bishop, I have a strong suspicion that you are curious why I chose this location to dine alfresco.”
“I’d be lying to you if I said that it hadn’t crossed my mind,” Bishop divulged. He knew Christian’s intuition was legendary and the main reason he had risen to power. Ian also had a niggling feeling his boss was a mind reader.
“I know you don’t make it a habit to lie to me Ian... do you?” Christian said in an accusatory tone.
“No sir.”
“Good to know. I’m going to get down to brass tacks here. Jarvis swept the house for bugs and he found one in nearly every room. There were two in the boardroom and whoever planted them has been privy to all of our business. I trust the other members of the Guild about as far as I could throw them. I know that’s a broad brush stroke... I get that.” Christian stopped to gather his thoughts and maybe reign in his words.
Screw it
, he thought. “Ian, I need a real assessment of our situation. This plan of ours was supposed to be enacted
after
the collapse of society. Our members each had their respective parts of the country conditioned and ready for complete takeover. I’m worried. Although we only have a few hundred survivors to keep tabs on here in Jackson... the mere fact that they are survivors make them nearly impossible to subjugate. The sheep that we were going to rely upon to do our bidding after the collapse are all dead and hungering to eat us. I don’t mean here. You’ve done a stellar job of cleansing Jackson Hole of the infected... and so far your campaign against defectors has been effective. Still, we must presume that the other Guild members are not going to have as easy a go of it.” His eyebrows inched up.
It was Ian’s cue to speak. “You are dead on about the other Guild members. I had reservations and I did let you know early on that the ex-Presidents were going to be a problem. They are used to being coddled inside of their respective bubbles. I don’t think any of them have the patience to ride this out without infighting or doing something really stupid.” Before he continued Ian paused in case his boss had something new to add, then went on. “I feel strongly that we should exclude the rest of the Guild from our spoils of war, if you will. And under no circumstances should they reap any rewards from
our
Minot mission.”
Mr. C cleared his throat and downed the last of the warm champagne in his glass. With no place to set the flute he instead angrily hurled it at the living dead. “I had that executive decision made
before
a single one of those trucks left this town,” he said with a smug, know-it-all look on his face.
Bishop nodded but silently called
bullshit
on the lie.
Fredrick hissed as if he were part of the conversation and in total agreement. The pallid abomination’s Polo shirt was hopelessly snagged on the rusty barbed wire fence.
The leader of the Guild entered into a staring contest with the putrefying corpse. Realizing he had no chance of winning this one, Christian extended his hand, palm up, in Ian’s direction. “Give me your weapon.”
Ian warily eyed the gathering zombies and reluctantly unclipped his carbine from its center point sling, then passed it to his silver-haired boss.
“Hand me your sidearm please,” Mr. Christian ordered, sounding more than a little annoyed.
Slightly relieved that he didn’t have to relinquish his M4, but without saying a word, Ian removed his semi-auto pistol and handed it over.
The Guild leader stepped over a volcano-sized mole hill, dodged a pile of droppings from some four legged animal, and approached the rubbernecking ghoul. “Fredrick... what is it going to take for you to learn to keep your mouth shut?”
The zombie lunged against the fence, arms outstretched, bony fingers kneading the air as an eerie mournful hiss escaped from its leathered mouth.
Christian wasted no time. He shot Fredrick in the forehead at point blank range, experiencing great satisfaction as his twice dead assistant fell stiffly to the grass. Gray matter oozed from the fist-sized exit wound while black congealed blood leaked out of the
puckered divot up front. “That’s more like it, my little chatterbox.” Christian returned the bor
rowed pistol to his head of security. Temporarily distracted by a nagging fly, he moved his head side to side like a sparring boxer, trying to keep it from settling on him. “Where were we before I was so rudely interrupted?” Christian prompted Ian.
“You said that you wanted my opinion... but first I think we should get inside the vehicle,” Ian gently urged as he stole another glance at the gathering zombies. The former SEAL was afraid of no man, but the walking dead on the other hand caused a certain amount of anxiety to well up in him. If it were his decision, instead of keeping corralled zombies to serve as an example to would be defectors, he would have had women and children nailed to crosses in the town square.
Yes
, he thought,
crucified innocents would keep them all in line.
Black clouds of buzzing flies accompanied the living dead as more corpses began to push up against the rickety fence.
Fredrick, eyes wide and mouth open, continued his eternal staring contest as his comrades unwittingly trampled his supine form into the muddy field.
***
Tran sat motionless, relegated to a patch of damp grass, eyes closed, while his boss and the assassin lounged in total comfort inside the SUV. He said a Hmong prayer to ward off the monsters of his nightmares and waited patiently, with a calm sense of serenity, for this dangerous time to pass.
“There’s no need to worry about listening devices in this vehicle. I just picked it out from the dealership this morning; there are only ten miles on the odometer. I must admit I do find it intoxicating being able to take anything I need, anytime I want to.” Ian suddenly felt foolish for saying those words to a billionaire--especially to his boss--a man that was already used to having anything he wanted, anytime he wanted it. He collected his thoughts for a moment. “First things first: there can’t be any of those things walking around...
ever.
Let me worry about keeping the citizenry in check.”
“As you wish Ian. Do continue.”
That was easy
, Ian thought. “I propose we keep our cards close to our chest as far as the Minot missions are concerned,” he said, wondering how long it was going to take his very astute boss to catch the cat that just jumped out of the bag.
His boss perked up. “
Missions?
You just said you didn’t lie to me... but you were keeping this fro
m me
Ian
.” Christian steepled his fingers and parked them on his chin, all the while seeming to glare into Ian’s soul. “And
that’s the same thing as lying. I’m disappointed in you...”
Ian interrupted his boss; he didn’t want to give him enough time to nurture his budding resentment. “As soon as Jarvis told me
about the first set of listening devices I decided to send a team of my most trusted operators to b
ring back a ghost shipment--just for insurance. I’m sorry Boss... I take full responsibility. It was all in the name of operational security that I withheld the backup mission from you. For what it’s worth, at the time I didn’t know how secure the compound was or
who
was listening.” Ian’s stomach clenched as he mentally readied himself for a double barreled blast of fury from his boss.
“It does give me pause. Caesar had his detractors in the Senate and ultimately he was done in by those closest to him. I will not suffer the same fate. If it happens again you
will
be fed to them,” Christian said, stabbing a finger at the zombies.