Ghosts: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse (36 page)

FOB Bastion

“We’ve been jawing for quite some time,” Beeson said. He
took his boots off the corner of the desk and reached behind him. He came back
with the bottle of Scotch.

Perking up like a cat hearing a can opener, Duncan adjusted
his butt in the chair and said, “What do we have there?”

“We’ve talked about every war from Nam on up to the two wars
in the desert and the few bubbling in AFRICOM before Omega went and changed
everything. The whole time—whether you realize it or not—your eyes kept coming
back to this bottle. You have to have memorized the label by now?”

Feigning ignorance while keeping his shaking hands out of
sight, Duncan said, “It’s got a nice one ... looks like paper and colored
foil.”

“That it does,” Beeson said, turning the bottle over. “What
do you say we have a nip?”

“Maybe just a small one. Or two. But small ... I’ve got to
get that bird back to the compound.”

Beeson smiled. He peeled off the silver foil and cracked the
seal. Pulled two plastic Solo cups from a half-sleeve of them and poured a
finger in each. Handed the red cup to Duncan and noticed the palsy immediately,
but said nothing.

Duncan took the cup in two hands and quickly downed the
peaty-smelling whiskey.

“Slow down, fly boy,” said Beeson with a knowing look in his
eyes. “1981 Brora is meant for sipping. Spent twenty-three years in a cask. I’m
sure it can stay in your cup for a few minutes. Can’t it?”

Duncan said nothing. He placed the cup on the desk and
nudged it forward a few inches, universal semaphore for
more please
.

And Beeson obliged. He poured the same amount in the cup,
corked the bottle, and put it on the shelf behind him. He raised his cup in a
toast and said, “To Cade’s safe return.”

Duncan reached for his cup, the tremors subsiding
noticeably.

Utah Farmhouse

After a twenty-minute dissertation heavy on the pros and
cons of raising Alpacas in the high desert, Ray’s face lit up like he’d just
figured out the answer to the old chicken or the egg conundrum. Brook figured
either he’d had a mini stroke or was just plain out of material to talk about.
With a grin on his face and the shotgun in hand, he bowed out of the parlor,
promising a surprise and telling Brook to sit tight.

In the barn the Kids were getting antsy. With no windows to
speak of on the ground level to see what was taking place outside, Wilson was
forced to scale a treacherous ladder of simple wood slats nailed horizontal
between a pair of vertical support beams. At the rear of the partially full hay
loft, which—if he were to believe his own inner compass—faced southwest, he
found a pair of sliding doors similar to the ones below. Only these were much
smaller, designed to allow bales of hay entry into the loft, not oversized
tractors and animals like the doors down below. Still, he couldn’t budge these
doors. However, he did find a knothole in a slat big enough to allow him to see
the portion of the highway perpendicular to where the long drive to the
property began its journey up to the house and barn.

The rotters were still filing by. In the five minutes he sat
there with one eye pressed to the musty smelling wood, listening to Sasha
braying for an update, he got the sense that their numbers were slowly tapering
off. The other positive takeaway from his brief stay in the loft: There were no
monsters traipsing up the undulating feeder road—that he could see.

Having seen enough to know they were going to be cooped up
for a little while longer, Wilson scooted over the edge and, risking life and
limb with each step, made it the twenty-five feet to the hay-strewn floor in
one piece.

“Well?” Sasha said, even before Wilson could brush the
cobwebs and bird crap from his pants.

“Shouldn’t be too long,” Wilson said. “Assuming the old
folks didn’t kill Brook and eat her and we’re the next course.”

Taryn put her arm around Sasha and said, “Don’t say stuff
like that, Wilson. We’ve got to stay positive.”

He kicked some hay then, looking sheepish, said, “Sorry.
Just kidding. I’m sure they’re vegans or something.”

Worming from Taryn’s embrace, Sasha said, “I’m fine,” and
stalked towards the barn doors to look out at the house.

Letting her go, Taryn said, “How’s Chief?”

“Sleeping. I think.”

“Seems like he’s sick to me.”

Wilson said, “Like the flu or something?”

Taryn started walking to the F-650. She said, “Worse ...
maybe.”

“Like he’s been bitten worse? No effin way. He’d have told
Brook and she in turn would have told us.”

Taryn climbed up on the black truck’s running board. Cupping
her hands, she peered into the gloom and saw Chief stir and turn away from the
window.

Wilson said, “Well?”

Taryn answered, “He’s sleeping.”

Max padded up and sat next to Taryn and looked up at the
truck looming over them both. Then he put one paw on the running board, head
cocked, eyes, one blue and one brown, fixed on Taryn’s face.

“If only you could talk, Max,” she said, unaware how
enlightening a gift of that magnitude would be.

“I see someone moving behind the windows,” called Sasha, her
face pressed firmly to the vertical sliver of light where the barn doors met in
the middle.

Schriever AFB

Nash picked the sat-phone off the desk. She turned it over
in her small hand and thumbed it on. After the screen came to life, she
scrolled to the messages and read the text. With tears forming in the corners
of her eyes, she read the text again, mouthing the words. Then, with her throat
constricting and hot tears of joy pouring down her face, she plucked her pistol
and the half-finished bottle of tequila off the desk blotter. She walked over
to the picture of Nadia and her at USC. Took it down off the wall and planted a
kiss on the small figures. She put the photo on her desk and turned around
again in the small office and made her way to the filing cabinet.

It opened with the usual squeal and she placed the pistol in
its holster and tucked it under some papers.

The bottle went in the garbage can with the others. She
policed up the broken glass and it went in with the bottles.

Standing in front of the mirror hanging in her closet, she
inspected her mess dress blues. Buffed the brass buttons that needed attention
with a sleeve. Straightened her collar and tie. Smoothed her skirt and looked
at the ceiling reflected off her highly polished shoes.

Methodically, she undressed and stowed everything away in
the garment bag. Then she retrieved the crumpled ACUs from the floor and
dressed quickly. Bloused the trouser legs and laced up her boots.

Once again comfortable with her place in the world, rank in
the Air Force, and her standing with her daughter, Major Freda Nash grabbed a
sleeve of Rolaids from her desk drawer, her cover off the desk, and began the
short, yet oh-so-long, walk to the Tactical Operations Center.

Helena’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Dinner is ready,
Ray.” Then, wearing a pair of red-and-white-checked oven mitts, she shuttled a
shallow casserole dish from the kitchen and placed it on a coaster on the
table. “Come, Brook. Let’s eat.”

Brook’s eyes locked on the dish. The aroma seeping from
under its lid was familiar. She’d had whatever it contained before, of that she
was certain. Then, with a rattle indicative of a loose pane of glass, she heard
a door open and close from somewhere beyond the kitchen, near the back of the
house. A beat later Ray called out, “How long until we eat, honey?”

“I just called for you,” screeched Helena.

“I was in the shed,” Ray hollered as he shuffled through the
doorway carrying a paper bag.

There was a rustling and a clunk when he set it on the
floor.

Helena brought out another serving dish, the smoky aroma of
ham wafting after it. She arranged it near the head of the table, placing a carving
knife and fork at its twelve o’clock. Another couple of forays back and forth
and Helena had some pumpkin pie filling and cranberry sauce on the table as
accompaniments. “Sorry,” she said. “I would’ve made a crust for the pie if I’d
have known we were having company for dinner.”

“What are you cooking all of this with?” Brook asked.

Helen put a pepper mill and salt shaker next to the
casserole. She looked up and said, “Gas,” as if she thought the question
absurd.

Brook pulled out a chair and sat to the left of the head of
the table.
Having company for dinner.
She shook the morbid thought and
looked dead ahead at a curio cabinet, all dark wood and glass and filled with
dust-catching knick-knacks. She glanced over the spread of food, pausing to
watch the cranberry sauce, still in the shape of the can it slid out of, jiggle
as she accidently jarred the table. The whole surreal scene was part dinner at
her mom’s house and part dining in the Twilight Zone. She was surprised Helena
hadn’t drawn up a placard and provided a fourth place setting for Rod Serling.
Shaking her head, Brook asked incredulously, “How can you eat right now with so
many of those things out there? And how can you expect me to eat while my
friends are out there locked in the barn?”

Ignoring the question, Ray took his seat at the head of the
table. Started carving the still steaming and very obviously—based on its
perfect symmetry—canned ham. “Helena always cooks special when the surge of
deaders shows up. They’re back and forth here every couple of days. Means we
eat real good at least three days out of the week. But we scrimp the rest of
the time,” he said. “So you better eat up.”

Brook thought:
Like the last supper.
Feeling her
stomach growl, she pushed her plate forward and shook her head. She said, “No
way. I can’t eat with you. Not now. Not in good conscience.”

Helena sat down across from Brook. Smoothed her apron and
unfolded a linen napkin which went on her lap.

Ray passed the ham and then spooned a fat helping of green
bean casserole, complete with onion crisps, atop his slices of ham. “If you’re
not going to eat,” he said, “at least let me indulge you in some
food
for thought.”

On the verge of openly salivating, Brook nodded as she
watched Helena scoop the creamy green bean goodness—one of Brook’s mom’s
signature dishes—onto what looked to be the elderly couple’s best gold-trimmed
china.

Between bites, Ray said, “Are you familiar with Friedrich
Nietzsche?”

Brook nodded. Said, “German philosopher who said
God is
dead
. Even as bad as it’s gotten ... I don’t subscribe to his thinking.”

“Wow,” said Helen. “You’re the first one who’s heard of him
... so far.”

Having company for dinner.

Brook squirmed in her seat. Nodded and watched Helena cut
into the ham on her plate.

Ray put his knife and fork on his plate. Craned and looked
out the picture window. He said, “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that
in the process he ... or she ...” He smiled at his display of gender
sensitivity and went on, “... does not become a monster.
And
if you gaze
long enough into the abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”

Brook smiled. Nodded again. She wished she had kept her
Glock and tucked it in next to the small of her back. Just in case things got
any weirder.

Helena glanced out the window and placed her silverware next
to her plate. Fork on the left. Knife on the right. The napkin she refolded and
arranged neatly at twelve o’clock. She cleared her throat.

Brook noticed the woman’s red lipstick was smudged, some of
it rubbed off on a front tooth.

Helena said, “To live is to suffer. To survive is to find
some meaning in the suffering.”

Doing her best not to sound flippant, Brook said,
“Nietzsche?”

“Correct,” Ray said. He bent over and snatched the sack off
the floor. “It’s been long enough since the main group of deaders passed to set
you and your friends off on your own. But first I want you to have these.
Figure given the circumstances … we’ll not be needing them again. I just hope
it’s what the doctor ordered ... so to speak.”

Brook’s chair squealed against the hardwood floor as she
stood to accept the offering. She unfolded the top and looked inside and her
heart skipped a beat. Trailing a shouted, “Thank you,” she bolted for the door.

“You’ll need these,” called Ray.

After skidding on the hall runner and almost falling on her
backside, Brook about-faced and rushed back and took the keys to the padlocks
from him. Then, still speechless, she turned a one-eighty, straightened the
rug, and was out the front door and taking the stairs down two at a time.

Before Brook could begin to doubt her reversal of fortune,
she was at the barn with the key turning in the first lock. A beat later both
locks were in the dirt and she could hear Wilson rallying the others. With
those inside helping, the doors parted effortlessly.

Wilson squinted against the sunlight, his face a mix of
emotion.

Brook said, “Chief?”

Wilson answered, “He’s sleeping.”

“Something is wrong with Max,” said Sasha. “He hates Chief
all of a sudden. Why do you think that is?”

Brook saw Taryn’s features awash in worry. She said, “The Zs
are gone, guys.” She opened the paper bag, displaying the contents for all to
see. “And we can go home now.”

Nobody moved. Nor did they acknowledge the good news.

Wilson said, “When were you going to tell us about Chief?”

Brook glanced at her watch. Did a couple of calculations
involving mileage and time and estimated airspeed. After a beat she said, “He’s
not dead yet. So there’s still hope. But only if we go right now.”

“He died when he got bit,” said Sasha. “He did get bit ...
right?”

“I think so,” conceded Brook. “Just trust me. There’s still
a chance to bring him back.”

Sasha mouthed, “Trust me,” to Taryn. She looked at Wilson
and, spinning a finger by her ear—the universal sign for
this lady is crazy
—she
turned, walked a few paces to the Raptor, and climbed in behind the driver’s
seat.

Taryn’s face suddenly lit up. She grabbed Brook by the elbow
and said, “Does this have something to do with the thumb drive I found at
Schriever?”

Brook nodded slowly. She said, “Let’s go.
Now!
”

Sasha called Max and he came running and jumped into the
truck with her.

Chief was snoring when Brook opened the door and climbed in.
A good sign, considering the alternative. Plus, at rest, a person’s metabolism
is much slower. And in theory, so would be the speed in which the virus moved
throughout his bloodstream.

She checked the sat-phone. Nothing new there. She thought
about hailing the compound but decided once again no news is good news. So she
stuck the keys in the ignition and turned the engine over, praying Chief was
correct in his assumptions concerning his constitution. Then, with the V10
rumble echoing off the rafters, she amended her prayer, asking that her friend
be granted a slow burn against Omega. She wasn’t being greedy and asking for
the same seven-hour rate of turn the DHS agent named Archie (the first
surviving recipient of the Omega antiserum) had been blessed with. On the
contrary. She’d only asked her God for another hour. Nothing more. Nothing
less.