Allegiance by Shawn Chesser Read Free Book Online Page A

mirror on the back of the visor, Phillip watched the melee from the
Cruiser’s finely leathered confines.
    Duncan stopped just
outside of the rotter’s reach, leveled his weapon, and jabbed the barrel into
its chest. He wanted nothing more than to pull the trigger, but couldn’t risk
the unwanted attention it would bring. Instead, he backed off, creating a yard
of separation, flipped the gun around, and swung for the upper decks. The first
blow to the head resounded with an earsplitting crack, knocking the shambler to
the ground. Duncan stepped closer before it could rise, and with a chopping
motion brought the shotgun down repeatedly on top of its head.
    One less to worry
about , Duncan told himself as he
dragged the dead weight off the road. He wiped the shotgun off in the knee-high
grass and trudged back to the truck.
    “Holy shit,” Phillip
blurted the second Duncan slid behind the wheel. “What was that all about? Am I
getting on your nerves or something? ‘Cause if I am I can put a lid on it. Or
shut my trap. Or stow it Vera... I’ve heard ‘em all.”
    Duncan took a deep
cleansing breath, eased the brake off, and popped the rig into drive. He crested
the hilltop once again and started the long coast downhill, riding the brakes a
little, keeping his speed under twenty-five. “No,” he lied. “I didn’t want to
have to worry about accidently hitting the thing on the return trip.”
    “Good thinking, Sir,”
said Phillip.
    Partway down the hill,
Duncan stopped the Land Cruiser on the center line, turned and said, “Phillip,
you seen the movie Fargo?”
    “No, I haven’t. Why?”
    “Never mind,” said
Duncan. He figured after they checked out the Humvee and got back on the road
he’d have a chat with Phillip. And if that didn’t work, he’d sacrifice one of
his socks. But, one way or another, their drive to the compound would be in
silence.
     

Chapter 6
    Outbreak - Day 15
    Schriever Mess Hall
    Colorado Springs,
Colorado
     
    Raven’s breakfast
consisted of tepid, over-sweetened oatmeal and a glass of flavorless powdered
milk that had all the viscosity of air. How anyone choked the stuff down was
beyond her comprehension.
    Skipping the brown
morass being passed off as hot cereal, Brook opted to drink her breakfast. She
sipped at the steaming mug filled with what Cade liked to call “Schriever’s
finest brown water,” while her daughter worried the bowl of oatmeal,
concentrating intently on what looked to Brook like an intense game of stand
the spoon up .
    Looking around the mess
hall, she noticed that the place was nearly empty. Gone were the civilians who’d
made the room full of narrow tables and benches a pain to navigate, clogging
the place up with their disorderly back-and-forth forays through the chow line.
    Suddenly she wondered why
the food she had helped liberate and bring back to Schriever wasn’t being
served. Surely all of the Pop Tarts hadn’t been consumed already. Then,
for a New York second, she entertained the idea of going around the end of the
steam table, strutting confidently behind the three-man crew, making her way to
the dry storage and taking what she had risked her life to help procure.
    Though the look on
Raven’s face would have been priceless, thankfully the thought was fleeting and
gone before Brook acted. For the life of her she couldn’t put a finger on why
she was obsessing about Pop Tarts. The problem had roots elsewhere, and this
was how it had started the last time—before she had gone and begged Colonel
Shrill to allow her to tag along on the food run. Only that time her ire had
been directed first at her husband, who was already onboard a helicopter and
halfway to Jackson Hole, and then she had redirected that anger and taken it
out on the inanimate objects in the Grayson billet while Raven looked on in
horror.
    But that small itch
needed to be scratched again. The little imp was sitting on her shoulder
telling her how exhilarating it was on the outside,