Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse
Read Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse Online
Authors: Shawn Chesser
Ghosts:
Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse
By
Shawn
Chesser
KINDLE
EDITION
***
Ghosts:
Surviving
the Zombie
Apocalypse
Copyright
2015
Shawn
Chesser
KINDLE
Edition
Kindle
Edition, License
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only.
This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like
to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for
each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was
not purchased for your use only, then please go and buy your own copy. Thank
you for respecting the hard work of this author. This is a work of fiction. Any
similarities to real persons, events, or places are purely coincidental; any
references to actual places, people, or brands are fictitious. All rights
reserved.
Shawn
Chesser Facebook Author Page
***
Acknowledgements
For Maureen, Raven, and Caden ... I couldn’t have done this
without all of your support. Thanks to all of our Military, LE and first
responders for your service. To the people in the U.K. who have been in touch,
thanks for reading! Lieutenant Colonel Michael Offe, thanks for your service as
well as your friendship. Shannon Walters, my top
Eagle Eye
, thank you! Larry
Eckels, thank you for helping me with some of the military technical stuff in
Ghosts. Any missing facts or errors are solely my fault. Justin Miller ...
“Kindness” ... priceless! Beta readers, you rock, and you know who you are.
Thanks George Romero for introducing me to zombies. Steve H., thanks for
listening. All of my friends and fellows at S@N and Monday Old St. David’s,
thanks as well. Lastly, thanks to Bill W. and Dr. Bob … you helped make this
possible. I am going to sign up for another 24.
Special thanks to John O’Brien, Mark Tufo, Joe McKinney, Craig
DiLouie, Armand Rosamilia, Heath Stallcup, James Cook, Saul Tanpepper, Eric A.
Shelman, and David P. Forsyth. I truly appreciate your continued friendship and
always invaluable advice. Thanks to Jason Swarr and
Straight 8 Custom Photography
for the awesome cover. Once again, extra special thanks to Monique Happy for
her work editing “Ghosts.” Mo, as always, you came through like a champ!
Working with you has been a dream come true and nothing but a pleasure. If I
have accidentally left anyone out ... I am truly sorry.
***
Edited
by Monique Happy Editorial Services
Table of Contents
Trying to become one with the massive Douglas fir, Raven squatted
and pressed her back hard against its gnarled trunk. With the unpleasant sensation
of coarse bark grating her skin through the thin tee shirt she’d thrown on
during her hasty retreat from the compound, she strained mightily in the dark to
hear anything over her heartbeat and labored breathing.
Finally, after a few seconds spent listening and probing the
dark with her eyes for any signs of movement from the direction of the footpath
leading to the grass-covered clearing, she heard twigs cracking and the hollow
thuds of plodding, unsteady footsteps.
Then, seemingly from all around, she heard the ubiquitous
rasps—like dried cornstalks rustling in a stiff breeze—of determined first turns
on the hunt.
Stay here
, her mom had hissed a beat prior to melting
into the night, clad only in white panties and bra, minus the usual stubby
carbine which was still in two pieces, an integral part having been dropped and
lost in the deep grass hours earlier. In its place, clutched in Brook’s fist as
she left to become the hunter, was the black pistol she had dragged hastily
from the holster still belted to the pair of pants she’d been forced to leave
without.
Goose flesh welled up on Raven’s forearms and rippled down
her sides. She felt the rapid-fire
thump, thump, thump
of her heart threatening
to leap from her ribcage. Her ears burned hot and her body heaved with each
drawn breath.
Focusing on the moonlight-dappled game trail a dozen feet to
her fore, she pulled her knees to her chest, held her breath, and strained to hear
the sounds of the living: hard breathing, whispered words, a volley of gunfire;
anything but the screams of the dying to let her know she was not alone.
But the latter came first. A shrill keening wail that set
the hairs on her arms on end. It ceased after just a few seconds, but the echo
careening through the forest lasted nearly as long as the shiver-inducing real
thing.
Let Sasha have your rifle
, her dad had said before
leaving the Army base in Colorado.
We’ll get you another after we get to the
Eden compound
, Mom had said.
Famous last words
thought the twelve-year-old,
her barely clothed body throwing an involuntary shiver.
Lot of good it did
her
, thought Raven, fairly certain that the death knell had belonged to
Sasha.
She couldn’t fathom how things had gone so wrong so quick.
One second she was asleep, warm under the covers, and the next she was being yanked
from her bed in the dark by a pair of frantically grabbing hands. Then the
light snapped on and her mom was ushering her out and grabbing the weapon.
Strangely, as she sat nestled against the tree trunk, she couldn’t remember her
mom saying a word, merely pointing to what was happening outside.
Gunshots in the dark snapped Raven back to the situation at
hand.
Three shots
, she thought.
Sounds of the living
. But the
gunfire that she’d wished for had only summoned more dead from the surrounding
woods. Oblivious of the trail, they crashed through the underbrush moaning,
hissing, their numb bodies snapping off low hanging branches, the sharp reports
making Raven jump.
Then her mom returned, two blurs of white cotton demarcating
the tanned skin, black mane flowing in her wake. The pistol was thrust out in
front with orange licks of flame lancing from the muzzle, the sharp reports
quickly swallowed up by the nearby foliage.
The hollow thuds of infected bodies hitting the forest floor
were suddenly interrupted by a creak of metal on metal that carried on the
night air from the compound. Looking that way, Raven picked up indistinct male
voices, giving her a modicum of hope. But the scene that she saw when she
shifted her gaze back to her mom crushed it instantly. Took the air from her
lungs. Gasping, she saw her mom being yanked to the ground. Clawlike hands
were twisted into her hair and more were reaching from the gloom, the dirt-and
blood-crusted nails carving a jagged road map on her smooth skin.
The pistol bucked twice then suddenly went silent as a dozen
shadowy forms piled on. Even in the dark Raven could see that her mom was
doomed. Caught between the overwhelming urge to run into the fray unarmed or bolt
and save her own life, discretion won out and she chose the latter.
With the metallic tang of freshly spilt blood hitting her
nose, Raven witnessed the woman who had brought her into the world fighting for
her life. Lashing out. Blows landed on decayed flesh to no effect. The struggle
lasted for a second or two until finally, mouth locked into a silent O, all of
the fight left Brook’s petite form. As the dead rent flesh from her blanching
extremities, her heart continued beating, sending blood sluicing from a gaping neck
wound. It pooled around her head, black like a crow’s wing, then shiny runners
broke free and ran downslope, crisscrossing the dirt path in front of Raven’s
curled toes.
Terrified, she stood to run and was instantly tripped up on
a knotty root angling away from the trunk. Eyes still fixed on her escape route,
she went down like a base runner stealing second, face first, arms outstretched
to cushion her fall.
While still airborne two things happened simultaneously. She
screamed, shrill and high-pitched with a lot of lung behind it. Then, as
quickly as it erupted from her chest, the soul-wrenching sound was cut off by what
seemed like a kid’s entire sandbox worth of dirt, pebbles, and pine needles, as
gravity brought her back to earth face first.
Through her side vision she saw the monsters’ heads turn in
unison. With steaming entrails in their greedy clutches, they rose together and
began a slow trudge in her direction.
Her second scream snapped her awake and, judging from the
distinct smell of pitted metal and slight dampness permeating the air, she knew
instantly that she was safe and secure in her new subterranean home.
In the next instant she was awash with gratitude and realized
the hand clamped over her mouth stifling the scream belonged to someone with
her best interests at heart. There were no dead piling on top of her prone
form. No gnashing teeth rending meat from her bones. No wiry fingers scooping
her innards out in preparation of a feast. Just a warm body with a familiar
scent who whispered six soothing words: “
It was just a bad dream
.”
The hand withdrew and Raven rasped, “Huh, uh. That was a
full on
nightmare
, Mom.”
There was a moment of silence.
“And in it
you
died.”
“But I’m here now. Alive and well,” said Brook in the dark. She
kissed Raven on the forehead then added, “Shhh. Do you hear that?”
But before Raven could reply, two closely placed clicks
echoed off the ceiling. Then the stark white radiance from the single sixty-watt
bulb blinded her. Eyes squeezed to slits, she shook her head. Answered, “No.
What am I supposed to be hearing?”
“I guess it’s more of a feeling right now. Get dressed,” Brook
requested. “And make it quick.”
Nothing about this sounded good to Raven considering that
the still lingering nightmare had commenced similarly. Fully convinced she was
awake and had not been thrown back into the horrific scenario conjured up by
her subconscious, she lowered herself from the bunk. As she pulled on a tee and
a pair of jeans, her head tilted a degree to the side and, eyes still narrowed,
she queried Brook: “When do I get my gun back?”
With one arm poked halfway through a sleeve and the other
probing for an opening, Brook paused and looked at Raven one-eyed through the
shirt’s stretched out neck. “Why?” she asked before forcing her head completely
through.
“I’d feel more comfortable. That’s all.” Raven looked away
and finished dressing, lacing up a pair of boots left behind by the family that
used to call this end of the compound home.
Brook said, “I’m sure we’ll find something from the quarry
that fits Sasha better. Then you’ll get yours back.”
Raven smiled then started the overhead bulb swaying, which sent
the shadows against the wall undulating in random directions.
There were footsteps on the wood flooring outside and then a
beat of silence which was followed by a light rap on the metal door.
Taking the two pieces of her disassembled rifle in hand, Brook
rose and said, “Who is it?”
“Chief,” came the sonorous reply.
Seeing that Raven was fully dressed, she opened the door and
found herself eye-to-eye with the stocky Native American who went by Chief. Not
a rank or noble distinction. He had made that clear when they first met. Just a
nickname some of the inmates with like ancestry had attached to him during a
long stint in a correctional facility in California. And though he was
Jake
—a
derogatory name given the correctional officers in charge of the Native
Americans’ wing in the prison—no matter how hard he tried to distance himself
from the nickname it was always there. With a nod, Brook said, “What’s up,
Chief?”
“There’s a chopper inbound,” he said slowly, in a soft voice
that reminded Brook of how mall Santas talked to kids—only Chief’s words were
wholly believable. No underlying hint of subterfuge whatsoever. At that moment
she decided the man held honor in high regard. Kind of reminded her of a much
older version of her husband, Cade. Two decades older—at least. “I felt its
vibration in my bones,” she said. “Spent a lot of time around them lately.”
Before Chief could respond, Raven squealed, “Daddy!” and
bolted past both of them, the nightmare completely forgotten.
Grinning at the display of youthful enthusiasm, Chief said, “We
better catch up with her.”
Agreeing with a nod, Brook set her disassembled carbine
aside and scooped up her gun belt with the compact Glock 19 snugged in its
holster. Under Chief’s watchful eye she drew the semiautomatic and aimed it at
the floor. Checked the magazine, rammed it home, and cracked the slide to
confirm that one was
in the pipe
as Cade was wont to say. “Good to go.”
She holstered the pistol, belted the drop-down rig around her waist, and
secured the holster to her right thigh.
As Brook stepped into the corridor, the sound of rotor
blades hammering the night air reached her ears. Louder still, footsteps and
excited voices—male and female—bounced around the confined corridors.
She squeezed through the foyer and, storming out of the
compound, instantly ran into the cool blast of rotor wash and found herself blinded
by the brilliant white landing lights of the inbound DHS Black Hawk.
Instinctively raising a hand to ward off flying debris and squinting hard
against the blinding light, she pulled Raven close and watched the trio of younger
survivors, in various stages of undress, form up next to her.
“They’re back,” Wilson shouted excitedly over the buffeting
winds pushing ahead of the flaring chopper.
Raven craned towards her mom and hollered, “Is Daddy in
there?”
“I’m sure he is,” replied Brook. She thought:
He better be,
then glanced at her watch, which read 0125, and wondered what she’d be doing at
this hour back in Portland if the Omega virus hadn’t torn her small family’s
world asunder. Probably, she conceded,
shushing
a bunch of pre-teen girls
who didn’t understand the
sleep
component of
sleepover
. Far
better than standing here, gut churning, hoping to see her husband emerge from
the settling bird whole and unscathed, both physically and mentally. And seeing
as how her trained eye told her that some of the other survivors here at the
compound were exhibiting obvious signs of PTSD, one of her biggest fears was Cade
coming home broken after one of these missions. Succumbing to depression and
shutting everyone out. Or, the opposite, growing angry and lashing out at the
world or loved ones, or—God forbid—both.
As the helicopter touched down it bounced minimally and rolled
forward a couple of feet before the turbine whine dropped from a Banshee-like
wail and the rotors began slowing noticeably. Clearly, thought Brook, the pilot,
whom she barely knew, was still grappling with the finer points of flying the
big noisy machine. Stomach in knots, she saw the helicopter’s side door slide
open and a slim woman whom she’d never seen before jump to the ground, crouch
low, and hustle away from the spinning rotors.
Her anticipation mounting, Brook shifted her gaze back to
the chopper and saw Daymon jump from the cabin, crossbow in one hand, and a stubby
black shotgun in the other. Close behind him, two more camouflage-clad forms
exited the craft. The first, brandishing a black carbine, she recognized as the
former soldier named Lev. The second form was silhouetted against the airframe
by the landing lights. She stared hard at the wavering form and concluded the build
was all wrong. Whoever it was looked to be about Cade’s height, but twenty or
thirty pounds heavier. Then the man took a few steps forward, head bowed under
the whirring rotors, and was illuminated fully by the glare of the landing
lights. It wasn’t Cade. Of that Brook was positive. She shook her head side-to-side
as the completely bald and goateed stranger strode through the shin-high grass,
following tentatively in Lev’s footsteps.
Brook felt a tugging on her shirt and looked down at Raven
and read worry in her eyes.
“Where’s Dad?” she asked, her words choked and raspy.
Before Brook could answer, Raven’s face blanched and a
coughing fit ensued.
Casting furtive glances towards the Black Hawk, Brook gently
patted Raven’s back until the convulsions ceased. “You going to be OK?”
Nodding, Raven wiped a thin rope of drool from her lip. Then
dried the back of her hand on the front of her shirt. “Probably just
allergies,” she insisted. To which Brook felt inclined to agree seeing as how
Utah was probably host to a thousand different types of pollen.