Warpath: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse by Shawn Chesser Read Free Book Online Page A

his arm and let the
amber liquid spill out onto the grass at his feet. Then, seemingly channeling
the ghost of Catfish Hunter, he threw the empty overhand. It sailed at least
fifty yards, a graceful arc diagonally over SR-39, bounced once or twice on the
shoulder without breaking and skittered into the ditch.
    Seeing this, Daymon snatched up the pair of muddy shovels,
walked to the Cruiser and stowed them in the rear. Still fuming, he asked,
“Who’s going to cover the rest of your shift?”
    “Let me see your radio.”
    Daymon handed it over.
    Thumbing the talk button, Duncan ordered Phillip up to the
road to pull a few extra hours of watch.
    Cocking his head, Daymon said, “Why Phillip? I thought you
had your reservations about him.”
    “He’s capable. But if he’s up here keeping watch he won’t be
able to tag along with us to the quarry,” explained Duncan. “And that’ll spare
everyone’s ears ... ‘cause that boy can talk.”
    Daymon nodded, unamused, then straightened up and looked
west, the low sun at his back throwing his shadow long and exaggerated. He
watched the flesh eaters negotiate the slight dip in the road, and when their
gaunt faces broke the crest of the rise he asked, “You have some binocs?”
    “In the rig. Let me get ‘em.” Duncan ducked in and came out
with a pair of oversized black Bushnell’s, unwound the strap and handed them
over. Squinting into the distance he asked, “Whatcha seeing?”
    Daymon said nothing at first. Then he stepped onto the SUV’s
running board to gain a better viewing angle.
    Watching all of this, Duncan failed to understand why the
taller man was focusing on something in the shadows behind the rotters. So he
asked again, “Whatcha got?”
    “There’s one of those things hanging back. Where the road
curves and comes out of the trees.”
    “What is it doing?”
    “Probably nothing,” replied Daymon. “Let’s move this thing
and restring the wire.”
    Grabbing a rusty strand, Duncan asked, “Are you as sick of
these goddamn things as I am?”
    Finished wrapping the lower run of wire around the post,
Daymon unsheathed the machete, smiled mischievously and replied, “Let’s wax
some rotters.”
     
     
     
    Chapter 9
    FOB Bastion
     
     
    “Up and at em,” bellowed Brook. In fact she was up shortly
after Cade and had already dressed in a pair of weathered tan camo fatigue
pants she’d dutifully tucked into her boot tops. Over her heavy black T-shirt
was a thin cotton long-sleeved blouse, once white, but now a dingy tan and
buttoned mid-way up. Anticipating a long day in the sun, she’d rummaged through
the drawers and found a tan kerchief which was knotted loosely around her neck.
A black ball cap was pulled down low, her high pony tail sticking through the
hole out back. And strapped on her hip was a compact Glock similar to Cade’s
that had been a gift from Colonel Cornelius Shrill, her big intimidating friend
back at Schriever. Unaccustomed to hearing the female master raise her voice,
Max yelped and bolted from under the cot and immediately went into search mode,
ears perked, teeth bared, looking for the threat.
    “Everything is OK. Stand down, Max,” said Brook, a
half-smile curling her lip. She glanced at her watch as the liquid crystal
numerals flipped from 9:10 to 9:11. “It’s these other sleepy heads who
need to fall out and fall in.” Although all was said tongue-in-cheek—delivered
gruffly using Cade’s army-speak-infused lexicon—all humor was lost on both
Taryn and Sasha as the two came up swinging, lobbing verbal barbs of their own.
    “Last time I checked I wasn’t enlisted,” blurted Taryn,
rubbing sleep from her eyes.
    Sasha whined, “You’re not my mom ... what time is it
anyway?”
    “9:12,” answered Raven after checking her recently acquired
Timex.
    Wilson’s head poked from his sleeping bag and he planted one
elbow on his cot. After craning around, he fixed a no nonsense glare on his
sister and said, “Time