Mortal: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse by Shawn Chesser

Author:Shawn Chesser [Chesser, Shawn]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Morbid Press
Published: 2013-12-14T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 35

South Dakota

With a slow motion procession of dead on their six, and glimpses of daylight peeking through the fender-to-bumper maze, the fabled yellow VW came into view. It was on the shoulder, right where Cross had promised. It served as the far left bookend to a row of stationary vehicles that were nosed up against a tremendous pileup blocking the interstate shoulder-to-shoulder. The burned-out hulk of some kind of tractor-trailer rig appeared to have been—initially at least—the main cause of the backup. It had jack-knifed with its trailer jutting to the right, partially hanging over the shrub-covered embankment. The tractor itself, Cade presumed, had at first ridden up and over a handful of cars, crushing them beyond recognition before the entire jumble caught fire. Intense heat had scorched the asphalt, causing it to bubble before cooling and hardening, leaving it looking like the surface of the moon. The conflagration had also scoured away any clues as to what make or model the nearest half-dozen automobiles had been. Everything flammable was gone. Vinyl, cloth, and plastic vanished in a cloud of toxic fumes. Didn’t matter though, Cade thought. The people driving the little econo-boxes had probably died instantly. To him it was like they had almost been asking for it. Rolling coffins, he’d heard cars that size called. And the shoe fit because all that was left of them was skeletal remains—both human and vehicle.

“Cross, Lopez ... I need you two to cover Hicks at the next objective,” said Cade as a burst of silenced automatic rifle fire sounded in his earpiece. He glanced at the rearview in time to see a flurry of movement as Hicks gunned a trio of Zs to the roadway, and in nearly the same instant unclipped the rifle, tossed it down, and the black pistol reappeared in his gloved hand.

“Copy that,” replied Cross, eyes tearing up from the stench more so than the wind curling around his sunglasses. He sensed the truck begin to slow, snugged the SCAR carbine to his shoulder, and began dropping the nearest walking cadavers.

Then, before anyone could react, the sound of a hundred freight trains was again on top of them as Oil Can Five-Five skimmed overhead less than a hundred feet above the deck.

“This is Anvil Actual. How copy, Oil Can?” Cade called into the comms as the plane’s pale fuselage flicked by and the truck was buffeted in its slipstream.

“Solid copy,” replied a voice Cade recognized as belonging to the copilot who had introduced himself earlier as Second Lieutenant Norman Meredith.

“Are we still proceeding with Plan A?” Cade inquired. “Or does Nash have a Pave Hawk and some PJs (Air Force Pararescue Jumpers) enroute from Schriever?”

Meredith said, “If you have three hours to kill, we can arrange a Pave Hawk and a couple of PJs.”

Cade grimaced and tightened his grip on the wheel as a child-sized flesh-eater appeared from out of nowhere and was instantly swallowed under the truck’s front end. “Plan A works for us,” he answered back, as the small form thumped and bumped along the entire length of the undercarriage.

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