A Pound of Flesh: Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse by Shawn Chesser Page A

former would be sorted out when she started
her mourning process for Carl. Dealing with Cade was going to be
interesting. Hell, she thought, one look from his brown eyes and
she might forget all about the perceived sleight. However, the one
thing she did know with an absolute certainty—the person who had
smashed up the Grayson quarters was not really her. And she
vowed silently to herself that she would never let it happen
again.
    Brook’s stomach knotted as she recalled the
baffled look on Raven’s face after witnessing her usually calm and
collected mom topple one of the unused bunks, which, in domino
fashion took another, and then yet another with it. Then, with the
covers pulled above her nose and wide-eyed like she had seen the
dead, Raven had uttered the question that caused Brook to ask at
that terrifying moment, who, or what she had become.
    “Mom...” she had whimpered, “is it a mountain
or a mole hill?”
    ***
    Motor Pool Mission Staging Area
    As was her penchant for punctuality, Brook
was at the motor pool half an hour early. She killed the time
standing in the middle of the dusty staging area, sweltering in her
newly issued ACUs as her brain baked under the Kevlar helmet.
    She amused herself by watching Colonel Shrill
dart about issuing orders to the thirty or so civilians dressed in
colorful shirts, blue jeans and tennis shoes, who were milling
around and talking about anything and everything in loud boisterous
voices.
    To Brook it almost looked like he was herding
feral cats; calling the scene in front of her controlled chaos
would be way too kind.
    Distancing herself from the cacophony, she
gravitated towards the half dozen rough looking men clad in the
newest multi-cam fatigues. Judging by their tactical helmets which
bristled with night vision goggles, and high-tech streamlined comms
gear complete with boom mikes—the men had to be Special Forces
operators. As she got closer she noticed that although their
weapons were M4 carbines similar to hers, theirs had obviously been
highly modified to suit each of their personal tastes. All of their
rifles were outfitted with scopes and silencers for stealthy longer
range engagements as well as vertical fore grips and collapsible
stocks making them effective for close quarter battle as well.
These were multi-purpose weapons—that much Brook knew. She also
knew she wanted one.
    Shouldering her plain Jane vanilla M4 she
tried to blend in—as well as a five foot tall female amongst a
forest of men could.
    “You... little lady,” Shrill said singling
Brook out. How he knew it was her underneath the bulky helmet and
the military garb was a mystery. Surely there were short men on the
base. “Find the...” he paused to consult his clipboard, “I’m
designating you gunner in the Dakota truck. You’re riding with... a
civilian by the name of Wilson.”
    Designated gunner , Brook thought,
sounds better than burial detail . She envisioned herself,
wrapped safely in a plate metal turret with a .50 caliber Ma Deuce
blazing away. She wasn’t sure, but she thought the Dakota was one
of those exotic gun trucks from the Stan that Cade had once
mentioned.
    As Shrill’s booming voice continued pairing
people and assigning vehicles Brook headed to where the desert tan
military vehicles sat cooking in the sun. She didn’t want to waste
any time finding her “Dakota” gun truck and the fella named
Wilson.
    “Brook,” Shrill bellowed.
    She stopped and aboutfaced.
    The base commander jabbed his finger in the
opposite direction.
    Confused and slightly embarrassed at being
called out by her first name by the baritone voiced colonel, Brook
avoided all eye contact, especially with the men dressed much like
her, and padded off towards the cluster of liberated U-Haul
trucks.
    She set course for the nearest truck and the
shaded soil next to it. Before she had tromped twenty paces
rivulets of sweat had soaked into her fatigues up and down her
back, under her arms and worst of