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  Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

  HOME

  By

  Shawn Chesser

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  ***

  Surviving the Zombie

  Apocalypse

  HOME

  Copyright 2019

  Shawn Chesser

  Smashwords Edition

  Smashwords 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.

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  ***

  Acknowledgements

  For you, Dad. Gone home way too soon.

  Maureen, Raven, and Caden ... I couldn’t have done this without your support. Thanks to our military, LE and first responders for your service. To the people in the U.K. and elsewhere around the world who have been in touch, thanks for reading my yarns! Lieutenant Colonel Michael Offe, thanks for your service as well as your friendship. Beta readers, you rock, and you know who you are. Thanks, George Romero, for introducing me to zombies. To my friends and fellows at S@N and Monday Steps On Steele, 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, Heath Stallcup, Eric A. Shelman, David P. Forsyth, and Nicholas Sansbury Smith. I truly appreciate your continued friendship and always invaluable advice. Thanks to Jason Swarr and Straight 8 Custom Photography for another awesome cover. Once again, extra special thanks to Monique Happy for her work editing “HOME.” Mombie, as always, you came through like a champ! Working with you for close to a decade has been nothing but a pleasure. I truly appreciate having a confidante I can trust. If I have accidentally left anyone out ... I am truly sorry.

  ***

  Edited by Monique Happy Editorial Services

  www.moniquehappy.com

  Prologue

  Sunday - December 26, 2011

  Yoder, Colorado

  A series of loud thumps sounded in the Ford Bronco’s cabin and Daymon Bush found himself fighting the steering wheel just to keep the vintage rig tracking straight on the snow-covered two-lane. As the long travel suspension continued absorbing impacts with zombie corpses camouflaged by fresh snow dumped on eastern Colorado the previous night, Duncan Winters, riding shotgun and gripping the grab bar by his head, fixed the younger man with a hard stare.

  “Slow yer roll, Slim,” said the fifty-eight-year-old Vietnam veteran in his gravelly Texas drawl. “Feels like I’m riding a broken helicopter through triple-canopy.”

  “You would know, Old Man,” Daymon quipped, his shoulder-length dreadlocks bouncing as the SUV shimmied and bucked. “Lord knows you’ve ridden your fair share of them into the ground. Three Hueys and a National Guard Black Hawk, if memory serves.”

  Duncan stared out the window at the vast expanse of white surrounding a distant smattering of weather-beaten structures. Speaking softly, he said, “Six birds, not four. Two were by controlled autorotation. And to my credit, on both occasions, I still stuck the landing.”

  Twelve-year-old Raven Grayson poked her head into the void between the front seats. She said, “We’re just glad you’re still with us, Duncan.” Looking sidelong at Daymon, she added, “Aren’t we, D?”

  “I’m just busting his—” Checking himself, Daymon changed the subject, saying, “What makes you two think this town isn’t already stripped clean?”

  “Because the foraging parties mostly focused on Pueblo and the communities surrounding Springs,” Raven stated. “At least that’s what my mom said. She and Wilson went on one trip south of Schriever back when we were staying there.”

  Duncan faced Raven. Peering into her brown eyes, he said, “I was jawin’ with your dad one night around the fire in Utah. He let on that he paid Yoder a visit before you all set off for my brother’s compound. Came here looking for a bicycle, for you, but also used it as a sort of training mission. Wanted to know if he could keep you and your mom safe outside the wire.”

  Staring out the right-side rear window, Raven said, “And we all know how that worked out.”

  “Cade did his best with what he had,” shot Daymon. “Don’t you guys ever forget that.”

  “Easy, big fella,” Duncan said, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Concentrate on getting us all there in one piece.”

  It was clear to Duncan that his friend was still beating himself up over his fiancée’s death at the hands of Adrian’s people. In a way, Daymon leaving Heidi all alone in their rural home while he went out to forage was akin to what Cade had been doing to his family all along. Though Raven’s comment wasn’t directed at the younger man, Duncan figured it stung all the same.

  “Once I’ve crashed as many vehicles as you have choppers,” Daymon said, “then I’ll start heeding your advice. Until then, zip it!”

  Duncan grimaced and sat back in his seat.

  A moment later they passed a roadside sign announcing the town of Yoder and listing its population at a tick over two hundred. Thanks to numerous bullet holes punched through the sign’s thin metal skin, the information was barely discernable. If the sign suffered another round of target practice, the unincorporated blink-and-you-miss-it town would become another nameless stop on a desolate highway full of them.

  The Bronco’s transmission whined as Daymon downshifted. The noise of snow compacting under the tires rose to the level of the engine’s rumble as their speed dropped from thirty miles per hour to a slow crawl. Rolling into the west end of town, heat from the noontime sun drawing wisps of steam from the snow blanketing the ground and cars and buildings, it became clear Yoder had suffered the same fate as nearly all the other small towns dotting the map.

  On the right was a burned-out mom and pop grocery store. In the lot fronting the place, armored by a foot-thick layer of snow, sat a pair of abandoned vehicles. Arranged in a ragged circle around the small import cars were a dozen or so empty shopping carts. And like creatures lying in wait, many more snow-covered carts dotted the lot’s periphery.

  On the north side of the main drag, facing the looted grocery store, was a long, low building. Though the front elevation wasn’t like the modern-day strip mall—all window glass surrounded by faux stone—the clapboard-sided structure was definitely their turn of the century ancestor.

  Flanked on the left by a two-chair barber shop and on the right by a second-hand store was a combo sporting goods/hardware store. Plywood sheets covered the door and windows. Wearing a thick layer of snow, a dozen tangled corpses in various death poses choked the covered entry leading up to the boarded-over front door.

  Daymon slowed and parked in the middle of the street, equidistant from the drift of dead bodies and frost-heaved sidewalk bordering the grocery store parking lot.

  “Good a place as any,” Duncan said, dragging the Saiga-12 semi-auto shotgun from its spot between his knees. Checking the box magazine and confirming it was loaded to capacity with shells, all ten alternating between buckshot and slug, he elbowed open his door and stepped to the road.

  Daymon cracked his window a few inches. Once Duncan had looped around to his side, Daymon said, “I have dibs on the rotters in front of the store.”

&n
bsp; Raven had already collected her Colt Commando carbine from the floorboard. Fitted with a minimalist telescoping stock, stubby SOCOM 556 suppressor, and EOTech optics setup, the Short-Barreled Rifle built for her by an armorer at Schriever weighed considerably less and measured a few inches shorter than her old battle rifle. Halfway out the passenger-side door, she leaned back into the truck and shot Daymon a You’ve got to be kidding me look. Closing the door at her back, she said, “You know the twice-dead don’t count.”

  Calling after her, Daymon said, “They got ears, don’t they?”

  Shaking his head, Duncan said, “That’s cheating, mi amigo.”

  Raven rounded the front of the Bronco. Matching Daymon’s gaze, she said, “I spent weeks waiting for Central Planning to approve my paperwork so I could go outside the walls with you two.”

  Daymon shut down the motor and exited the Bronco. Looking to Raven, he said, “So bureaucracy is a zombie, too. Something else to fear? Make your point.”

  “We all came to Springs together is her point,” explained Duncan. “Cade’s stellar reputation among the population notwithstanding, anything you do that’s not one hundred percent aboveboard is a direct reflection on all of us.”

  Bending over to examine one of the twice-dead corpses, Daymon muttered, “Point is moot anyway. Someone already beat us here.”

  “Look,” Duncan said, “I’ve got it on good authority there’s a herd a couple hundred strong stalled out down the road just outside of town. There’ll be more than enough right ears to go around.”

  “I get what you’re both saying,” agreed Daymon. “I don’t want to screw it up, either. This is all I got. No way I’m doing any kind of job where I’m required to work inside a building surrounded by a bunch of strangers.” Dragging his parka zipper to a spot just below his lengthening beard, he asked, “You going to divulge who this person of authority is?”

  Duncan smiled wide. “Let’s just say I have my sources on the inside.”

  “Nash?”

  Duncan said nothing.

  “Shrill?”

  Still Duncan said nothing.

  Tiring of the banter, Raven turned her attention to the building where her dad had found her that bike all those months ago. Noting that most of the zombies on the sidewalk had been face-shot from near point-blank range, she picked her way through the jumble of frozen extremities, taking care to not step on fractured bones or get too close to the gaping mouths.

  Broken glass popped underneath Raven’s boots as she entered the alcove and stepped up to the front door. Placing one gloved hand on the handle, she said, “You don’t have to work inside, Daymon. Why don’t you join the New Springs Fire Department?”

  Stepping over the sneering corpses, Daymon replied, “I fought forest fires before all this. Out of doors. And I grew up with most of the guys and gals on my team. Learned to ski with them. Drank at the Silver Dollar with them. Went bow hunting with some of them. We were a real close-knit team.”

  Raven banged a fist on the door. Three hard raps. Cocking her head to listen for anything stirring inside, she said, “Your team were people you trusted. People like us.”

  Scanning the road in both directions, Duncan said, “Bird of the Apocalypse is wise beyond her years.”

  Raven winced upon hearing the name she had first heard uttered a few weeks ago. Leading Alexander Dregan’s youngest son, Peter, to safety had endeared her to him greatly. So much so that the comic-book-loving teen had bestowed her with the nickname. Hell, she thought, Bird of the Apocalypse is a far cry better than Raven Mystique—an actual superhero in the Marvel universe the youngest Dregan could have saddled her with.

  Hearing nothing moving inside the darkened store, Raven tried the handle.

  Unlocked.

  She swung the rifle around, letting it hang from its sling against her back.

  Drawing her suppressed Glock 19 with her right hand, she nudged the door with her left elbow.

  The door moved less than six inches, then stopped.

  Craning her head, Raven spotted something on the floor just inside the door. Looked to her like a statue carved from wood. Even in the interior gloom she could see it was painted in garish colors.

  Putting her shoulder against the door, she pushed with all her strength.

  Still it didn’t budge.

  Holstering the Glock, she said, “A little help here.”

  With Duncan keeping watch, Daymon and Raven got the door to move halfway through its swing.

  Bathed in a thick pillar of light spilling in through the door was a drug store Indian. It had suffered some damage falling to the floor and wore a thick coating of dust. Pebble-sized kernels of broken glass littered the store’s wood floor.

  Daymon said, “They have one of these statues in the bar where Heidi used to work.”

  Regarding Daymon sidelong, Raven said, “Kind of a shitty thing to have to look at if you’re a Native American who wants to eat there.”

  Leaning over Raven’s shoulder to see inside, Daymon whispered, “Try eating at a Sambo’s if you’ve got my skin tone.”

  “Sambo’s?”

  After waving Duncan over, Daymon said, “Sambo’s was a restaurant chain whose mascot was a little brown boy with big lips.”

  Incredulous, Raven said, “And you ate there?”

  Daymon shook his head. “They went out of business when I was a baby. My moms told me all about them, though.”

  Arriving in the alcove, Duncan said, “What’s up?”

  “We’re going in,” informed Daymon. “You want to stay here and watch the road? Or do you want me to?”

  Patting the Saiga, Duncan said, “I got your six.” A brief pause. “You got mine?”

  With a slight eye roll, Daymon said, “If I see your Precious, I’ll grab it for you.”

  Chapter 1

  Suppressor leading the way, Raven squeezed through the door, stepped over the fallen statue, and moved aside to wait for Daymon.

  Thanks to many months of exposure to changing climate, the air inside Abe’s Value Hardware was ripe with the unmistakable odor of mildew and death. Though the merchandise had been picked over, a lot was left behind. Some was molding in place. It was clear rodents had taken over. Droppings and shredded packaging littered the aisles.

  Clutter and cobwebs notwithstanding, the place was a treasure trove of Americana. There were antique tricycles and American Flyer wagons parked on wall-mounted shelves right of the centrally located cashier’s stand. Porcelain oil signs and taxidermy game sat on shelves above the door. One sign in particular drew Raven’s attention. It featured a thirty-something woman wearing a red polka dot bandanna wrapped tightly around her head. Denim sleeves rolled up, the woman flexed one well-muscled arm. The sign was a throwback to the World War II war effort. The script above the woman’s head said it all: We Can Do It! She even wore an expression that conveyed all at once an iron will, intestinal fortitude, and moxie—all traits Glenda Gladson constantly reminded Raven she had inherited from her mom, Brook. The retired nurse even went so far to insist that, if cultivated, those traits would one day see Raven walking in her father’s footsteps.

  Bird of the Apocalypse.

  Stepping over the debris field inside the front door, Daymon asked, “What, specifically, are you looking for?”

  The sound of his voice in the still environs caused Raven to start. Recovering, she said, “Nothing in particular.” No sooner had she said it than her eye was drawn to a stack of plastic toboggans balanced atop a high shelf beside the door.

  “Well,” he said, “I need to find gas additives for Heidi. That old wispy haired helicopter mechanic isn’t as generous with his stockpiles of automotive lubricants with me as he is Duncan.”

  Straining to reach a rope tied to one of the red plastic sleds, Raven said, “Sergeant Whipper?”

  “Yeah, that dick.”

  “My dad beat his butt good. That’s why he’s so nice to me and Duncan.”

  “That explains
it,” said Daymon as a six-inch hula girl on the floor caught his eye. Bending and snatching up the dash ornament, he went on, saying, “Maybe we should stop by Schriever on the way back so I can beat his ass. Perhaps an attitude adjustment would convince him to be a little nicer to me in the future.”

  Raven said, “Only if you want to spend the night in jail.”

  Shivering at the prospect, Daymon stuffed the hula girl in a pocket.

  Raven let her gaze roam the barren shelves. The place had been stripped of most everything useful. No stools or ladders. No brooms or rakes to snag the dangling rope with. Though she’d hit a growth spurt since fall, there was no way she was getting the sleds down without resorting to doing the one thing she had grown to hate the most since losing her dad: ask for help.

  Through gritted teeth, she said, “A little assistance here?”

  “How many do you want?”

  “Four.”

  “How about we take all six? You can use the extras for barter.” Without waiting for an answer, Daymon reached over Raven’s head and easily plucked the toboggans from the shelf.

  Dust motes swirled and danced in the air as he placed the liberated snow toys by the door.

  “Thanks,” said Raven. “How tall are you, anyway?”

  “Counting my boots and dreads … six-two … ish. Maybe six-three.”

  “I’ve got a ways to go,” she conceded glumly.

  “You’re going to be taller than Brook,” said Daymon matter-of-factly. “You’re already nearly as tall as she was—”

  “When my dad killed her. Thought I would never hear myself say those words.”