Authors: James Cook
The briefing went as briefings go.
Great Hawk did not repeat things the way General Jacobs had. He also did not rely on paper. With the windows and doors blacked out, it made sense to connect the ruggedized tablet to a projector Anderson retrieved from one of the green plastic crates. He set it on a table and squared the image on a bare white wall. The information was the same as the last time I heard it. There were a few questions, which Great Hawk answered clearly and succinctly.
A few times, I zoned out and found myself staring at the generator we used to power the projector and charge our radios. It was small, multi-fuel design, and about as loud as the little fan I kept at my desk when I used to work for one of the big banks in Charlotte. The inner workings were contained in a green box, about two square feet, gas and oil inlets on top, with an air intake on one side and an exhaust tube that snaked across the room and vented the waste fumes out the nearest window. A panel on the front showed the usual controls and outlets. I resolved to ask around when I got home and ascertain the cost to procure one.
“All right,” Great Hawk said after just over an hour of lecture. “Any questions? Anything at all?”
No one spoke.
“Very well. If you think of anything, do not hesitate to ask. There are no dumb questions on this mission. It is too important.”
There was little conversation afterward. We all knew what to do. We wasted no time. The mission started immediately.
Our first order of business was to conceal the things we were not bringing along. Using shovels and entrenchment tools, we dug holes, buried most of the crates, the radio and satellite array, and the weapons and ammunition we were not bringing with us. After we left, a recovery team would HALO drop in at night, retrieve the gear, and ride out on a stealth Blackhawk.
The house had a detached garage in which were hidden five hand-drawn carts. The carts contained the kinds of goods one would expect to find in an average trade caravan: guns and ammunition of varying types and calibers, dried fish packed in salt, last year’s vegetables canned in mason jars, shovels, mattocks, axes, and rakes, clothes and shoes, and in lockboxes, feminine hygiene products, instant coffee, bags of tea, and the holy of holies, sugar. There were also a few bars of pre-Outbreak soap, laundry detergent, all-purpose cleaner, spray disinfectant, and ever-popular trash bags. Rounding things out were blankets, a box of diapers (which would go for a pretty penny, so to speak), coffee filters, cotton balls, a case of toothbrushes, and a few small boxes of razor blades.
The carts were heavily modified utility trailers, the kind people used to drag behind riding lawn mowers. They had been reinforced with steel re-bar, and each one had a crude rawhide harness clearly designed for human shoulders. Handles on the back allowed people to push from behind and lift the carts if the wheels got stuck. They reminded me of the cart Gabe and the Glover family and I had loaded our belongings into before heading east from the Appalachians over a year ago. The intention had been to go to Colorado and start a new life. We made it as far as Hollow Rock. And if not for Allison, I would never have gone anywhere again because I would be dead. But that’s another story.
The spec-ops guys ditched the fatigues and changed into traveling clothes. Lots of flannel and Carhartt, waterproof boots, head rags and ball caps, scarves and goggles. We armed ourselves with Chinese AK-47s and 9mm pistols Gabe told me were Russian manufactured Makarovs. I accepted one, two spare magazines, three boxes of ammunition, and put it all in my pack. It was there if I needed it, but I preferred my Kel-Tec. And of course, Bjornson noticed my mostly plastic composite gun and could not resist the opportunity to sling a barb.
“The fuck is that toy on your hip?” he said. “Looks like a little girl gun.”
I had my back to him, so I said, “You staring at my ass again, cupcake?”
“What? What the fuck did you just call me?”
I turned and enunciated slowly. “Cup. Cake. Idiot. That’s your name from now on. Cupcake. As for the gun, it’s a Kel-Tec PMR 30. Fires twenty-two magnum, magazine holds thirty rounds. Great for fighting hordes, and not bad against people if you know how to aim.”
“You fucking call me cupcake again and I’ll stomp your ass.”
“Anytime you’re ready, cupcake.” I put down my pack, stepped forward, and set my feet.
“Hey,” Anderson shouted, overhearing us. “Knock that shit off. We don’t have time for a dick measuring contest. You’re supposed to be professionals. Act like it.”
Bjornson tried to bore a hole in me with narrowed eyes. He must have thought it made him look mean. I wondered if he practiced that look in the mirror when no one was around. For some reason, I just could not bring myself to be frightened. I looked at Anderson.
“Keep your ape on a leash, and I won’t have to hurt him. He seems to have a problem minding his own business.”
“You little shit, I’ll-”
“Enough.” Anderson’s voice cut the air like a whip. Bjornson stiffened. “Hans, he didn’t say a word to you. If you start acting like an idiot, I’ll send you packing and you can walk your ass home. This mission is too important to spare your fragile little ego. So grow up. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir.” Bjornson stomped away.
I returned my attention to the cart I was working on. The bottom layer of steel sheeting, when pulled in exactly the right way in exactly the right place, opened to reveal a four-inch depth of false bottom. Within this, I stowed the weapons General Jacobs had arranged for me:
-Body armor.
-M-6 carbine, sniper configuration, chambered in hard-hitting 6.8 SPC, adjustable stock.
-210 cartridges loaded in 30 round magazines and more in boxes, all match-grade stuff.
-Screw-on suppressor.
-Adjustable one-to-six power illuminated-reticle VCOG scope.
-MOLLE tactical vest and web belt.
-Night vision goggles and scope attachment.
Gabe’s gear shared the false bottom as mine, and would remain in the cart until needed.
We also stowed our hand weapons in the cart. Gabe’s falcata and my small-sword/Y-stick combination were well known among the Alliance. We were both wanted men in this territory, and descriptions of us had been widely distributed. To mask our appearances, both of us had grown out our hair and beards. I hoped it would be enough. If not … well, I was pretty good with the AK-47. Better than the competition, I was willing to bet.
Anderson and Great Hawk conducted a final inspection to make sure anyone who found this place would not know we had been here. When they were satisfied, Great Hawk checked his map and pointed northeast.
“It is still early, but we have many miles to cross. Stay alert for infected. Move out.”
Gabe took up the reins of our cart and buckled them on. I walked behind the cart, ready to lend assistance when needed. Otherwise, I was responsible for watching the area around us for threats. I knew Gabe would do the same.
There were no rousing speeches, no fanfare, no muttered prayers or final instructions to comrades if we did not make it back. Great Hawk set off at a trot to scout ahead, Anderson took point, and, to a soundtrack of strained grunts and squeaking axles, the mission began.
*****
We went south through the forest for a mile or so, then followed an arrow straight path razed before the Outbreak to make room for high-tension wires and their associated towers. The path would lead us to Highway 13, the primary trade route into the Alliance capital.
Overhead spanned power, T1, and T3 lines, no longer humming with electricity and digital communications signals. The towers looked rusty. The cables and insulators looked to be in poor repair. I hoped none of them broke. I hoped there were no big battles ahead of or behind us. I once saw what happens when the big lines snap. The result had been a lethal whipsaw of heavy cable that traveled for miles and leveled everything in its path. Such an event would rip the lot of us to shreds without slowing the cables in the slightest. Great Hawk seemed aware of this, and had us stick close to the treeline.
Three hours in, it started raining.
Of course it’s raining
, I thought.
Drought last summer, a few feet of snow in the winter, and nothing since the spring thaw. But when I’m out here in the middle of nowhere, in enemy territory, pushing a heavy damn cart through the mud while carrying fifty pounds of gear,
now
it rains. Lovely. Just fucking lovely.
The terrain did not help. Scramble up one hill, stop and catch my breath, try to keep the cart from sliding away on the downslope, repeat, repeat. The soldiers were having the same problems, but did not complain. So I kept my irritation to myself and trudged on in silence.
At least we had not seen any infected. Yet.
Our destination was Carbondale, Illinois, an unlikely place for the capital of an infant nation. But that was where the Alliance’s president and council of representatives had set up shop. The town had been mostly abandoned during the Outbreak, making for easy cleanup for Alliance forces. There was a large lake near the town, providing a ready source of food and fresh water.
The people who had moved in and took over the place farmed, raised chickens and goats, and manufactured ethyl alcohol to power multi-fuel generators and vehicles provided by KPA forces now occupying Alliance territory. Carbondale was open to trade, as were most Alliance towns, but trade caravans were heavily extorted by the town guard. Which mattered not in the slightest to any of us. We didn’t care about the goods we were transporting.
We made seven miles the first day, less than half the distance to Carbondale. The plan had been ten miles, but Great Hawk called us to a halt late in the afternoon when we came upon a road intersecting our path. According to the tablet, there were buildings two klicks away at the end of that road. Any shelter was better than nothing, so off we went.
Traveling on the road was easier until we came to a point where several trees had fallen across some time ago. Rather than go over them, we took the carts around one at a time. It took four men per cart to force them over the soft, wet forest earth. Down the road, we had to repeat the maneuver twice more until, finally, a clearing came into view. Great Hawk signaled a halt, turned, and gestured to Hicks and me.
When we reached him, he pointed toward the field. “Scout ahead. Look for infected, or anything else. Do not engage. Come back and report what you see.”
“Can do.”
Gabe helped me empty our cart so I could retrieve my ghillie suit and sniper carbine. There was enough daylight I did not bother with the night vision equipment. Caleb borrowed Gabe’s ghillie suit and sniper carbine to save time.
“Don’t mess up my gear,” Gabe said, nudging Caleb on the arm.
The young soldier grinned. “No promises.”
Hicks took the left side of the road while I went right. At the top of the rise, we melted into the forest and began our sweep.
We brought radios. Mine crackled in my ear while I was lying behind some brush and scanning the windows of a building for movement. I guessed I was looking at some kind of processing facility for a chicken farm.
“Got infected,” Caleb said. “Over.”
Shit
. “Where? Over.”
“There’s a big production house behind the processing plant you’re looking at. I’d say there’s probably about sixty or seventy infected in there hibernating. Over.”
Hibernating infected. The most dangerous kind. They don’t eat for long enough, or see any food go by, and they shut down like killing the engine on a car. Later, you walk into a town, look around carefully, think the place is clear, think you’re safe, so you bust a window to get into a house or a store or something, and the next thing you know ghouls start pouring out of doorways and around corners and migrating in from the woodlands. A very easy way to find yourself surrounded. And a very painful way to die.
I carry a snub-nosed .38 caliber revolver on the small of my back. Caleb sold it to me, said he took if off a guy who tried to mug him back in Colorado Springs. It has a five-round cylinder, two-inch barrel, and each bullet therein has my name on it.
I will not become one of the infected. Not if I can help it.
“Let’s keep circling,” I said. “See what else there is to see. When were done, we’ll meet on the road down the hill a ways and head back. Over.”
“Sounds good. Out.”
I got up slowly and moved as silently as I could northward. The damp ground and wet leaves made my job easier, if not more comfortable. The rain had stopped, but my clothes were soaked and I could feel water seeping in through the tops of my boots.
As I walked, I kept my head turned left, only glancing in front of me to read the way ahead. I rounded the corner of the processing building and saw the clearing open up farther out. The grass was chest high, so I needed to get to higher ground to see across the field.
A maple tree near the treeline made a likely candidate. I jumped and grabbed a thick lower branch and hung there a few seconds. The tree shuddered a little. A bird took flight. No groans, no howls, no gun-wielding North Koreans screaming a language I did not speak. I did a pull-up, swung my legs over the next nearest branch, and levered myself into the tree.
It was not comfortable. The branch I sat on was strong, albeit narrow. But I could see clearly across the field. As I raised my rifle to look toward the large shed that thousands of doomed chickens had once called home, I saw movement in the grass a few feet in front of me.
A ghoul. Must have heard me.
It stood up and whipped its head around, the mannerism disturbingly birdlike. My right boot, which was bracing my weight against the trunk, chose that moment to slip an inch against the rough, wet bark.
Fuckity, fuck, fuck!
The head stopped moving. The white, red-rimmed, lifeless eyes stared straight at me. The mouth opened. It began to draw in a ragged breath, probably the first one it had taken in months. There was no choice. I raised the carbine, sighted in quickly, and squeezed the trigger.
Muted crack. Backwards snap of the infected head. Hiss of damp grass as it slumped to the ground. I saw another one raise its head, come up to its knees, and turn its head in the same odd manner as its predecessor. I remained absolutely still, not even daring to breathe. One minute passed. Two. Finally, with an almost human expression of disappointment, the ghoul lay back down. I waited another couple of minutes, then slipped carefully, ever so carefully, down from the tree. When I felt far enough away to be safe, I keyed my radio.
“How you doing, Hicks? Over.”
“I think the field is littered with infected. Kind of like undead land mines. Over.”
“I can confirm that. I woke one of them up. Over.”
A pause. “You take care of it? Over.”
“Affirmative. I think we should head back now. Over.”
“Roger, on my way. Out.”
I was the first one back to the road. I waited for Hicks, and right when I thought I should radio him to make sure he was all right, the limb of a sapling moved seemingly of its own volition and Hicks appeared from the trees as if conjured. I had not heard him, nor seen any indication of his approach. Although, admittedly, I wasn’t really trying. Regardless, the kid had talent.
“You good?” I asked.
“Yep. Let’s go talk to Great Hawk.”
We walked back and found the big Apache in conference with Gabriel and Captain Anderson. They stopped talking at our approach and waited for our report.
“Might not be the best place to bed down for the night,” Caleb said. “Place is crawling with infected. Maybe a hundred or more.”
Great Hawk looked disappointed. It was the first time I had seen any expression from him other than mild amusement. “Too many bullets to kill them all. Too loud. We’ll have to find another place.”
“Wait,” I said. “I have a better idea.”
“No,” Gabe said quickly, slashing the air with his hand. “I know what you’re thinking, and it’s too dangerous.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve done it plenty of times.”
“Yes, and it’s a miracle you’re still alive.”
“What are you two talking about?” Anderson asked.
Gabe pointed at me. “He wants to lead the horde away on foot.”
“On foot?” Anderson’s eyes went wide as he looked at me. “Are you insane?”
I glared at them. “Y’all are a bunch of candy-asses, you know that? I’ve done this hundreds of times. I know what I’m doing. I lead the horde away, you guys come in when I’m out of sight, kill the walkers left behind, and sweep the field for crawlers. If you don’t want to waste ammo, use hand weapons. As for me, an hour, maybe two at most, and I’m back in camp eating cold jerky and dried peas. What’s the problem with that?”
Great Hawk looked to the western sky. The sun was low on the horizon, framed in clouds of purple and tarnished gold. “We have less than an hour before sunset.”
“Exactly my point. Do you really think we have time to find another shelter? We do it my way, we only risk one person. If we stumble around in the dark trying to find another campsite, we’ll all be in danger.”
Great Hawk’s face was immobile for a few seconds. “You have a point. We will follow your plan.”
Gabe said something unpleasant and stomped away. Great Hawk let him go. “Your friend worries for you,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “Now are we going to stand around sharing our feelings all night, or are we going to get to work?”
“You shouldn’t go alone,” Anderson said. “I’ll ask for a volunteer to go with you.”
“And if no one wants to help?”
“Then I’ll voluntell somebody.”
“Voluntell. I like that. But I don’t think it’s a real word.”
“Sure it is,” Anderson said, grinning. “It’s what happens when you’re voluntold to do something. Kind of like how I was voluntold to take this mission.”
“Right. Well, volunteer, voluntell, whatever it is you’re going to do, do it fast. I need to get moving.”
“On it.”
Anderson went to talk to his men. I dug out my NVGs, put in fresh batteries, and attached them in a pouch to the back of my web belt. My intention was to return before nightfall, but it never hurts to have a contingency plan. I also put my sniper carbine back in the cart—it would slow me down if I had to run—and put the suppressor for my Kel-Tec on my belt. As with the NVGs, I hoped I would not need it. But if I had to shoot my way out of a bad spot, I wanted to do so quietly.
“I still think this is a bad idea,” Gabe said as I prepared to leave.
“I’m not arguing with you, Gabe.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose with his left hand, the motion making the nub of his reduced ring finger wiggle. “Be careful.”
“Really? Damn, I
so
wanted to give a ghoul a piggy back ride. Or maybe slow dance with one. Why do you have to suck the joy out of everything, Gabe?”
He tried to frown, but could not quite manage it. “Fuck you.”
“Sorry, you’re not my type. But maybe with a blond wig, some mascara, a little lip gloss …”
“I’m going to slap you.”
“My cue to leave. See you in a little while, amigo.” I hit him on the shoulder and set off at a jog.
*****
An hour later, just as I thought I was home free, I tripped over a goddamn crawler.
The little shit was dragging itself through the field with one arm. If I had been looking down like I should have been, I would have seen it, dispatched it, and been on my merry way. But I was hungry, and tired, and pondering how running a four mile round trip through woodland was a lot tougher at thirty than it had been at nineteen when I competed on my alma mater’s cross-country team, and the next thing I knew I was skidding face first through five-foot grass.
For a moment, I thought I had tripped over a large rock, or a piece of debris, but then I felt a hand clamp down on my ankle. The grip was immensely strong, like five pieces of steel digging into my flesh. I knew there was only one creature with that kind of strength, and I knew I did not have much time.
I tried to roll over, but the hand pulled and sent me back down to my stomach. My heel bumped against something, and I kicked out instinctively. The grip did not slacken, but for an instant, the pulling stopped. The hesitation gave me the time I needed to roll over.
The crawler was old. Its skin was dry and cracked, clothes worn away long ago, the flesh on its face tight and hollow. In a flash of thought, I realized I was looking at a ghoul in the process of turning into a gray. I also realized I had approximately half a second before it tried to bite me again.
My pistol was almost underneath me. I clawed at it, but could not turn to my left enough to free it from its holster. If I planted my right foot and strained, the ghoul would have a clear shot at my ankle. As I thought this, the crawler recovered and tugged at me again. So again, I kicked it in the face.
I gave up on the pistol and reached for my fighting knife. As it cleared its sheath, a size thirteen boot stomped on the crawler’s head, pinning it to the ground. The hand holding my ankle released and tried to grab the leg holding it down, but could not reach.
I scrambled away and got to my feet. “Just a second,” I said.
I screwed the suppressor onto my pistol and took aim. “Okay, on three. One, two, …”
As I said ‘three’, Sergeant Seth McGee stepped back and circled out of the line of fire. I fired twice, both rounds punching neat little holes in the crawler’s forehead. Black and red ichor oozed from exit wounds on the back of the skull.
“Thanks,” I said.
I looked at McGee, who had not been voluntold to come with me, but had volunteered. He was tall, maybe six-four, and very lean. Dark hair, full beard, and eyes even grayer than Gabe’s. His nose had been broken once or twice, and a scar ran under his hairline from his ear all the way to his forehead.
“No problem,” McGee said. It was the most he had talked since we left the others.
I’d had my doubts about McGee at first. At his height, and with his build, I estimated him at close to two-hundred thirty pounds. I wondered if he would be able to keep pace with me, being that I am four inches shorter and over forty pounds lighter. I need not have worried. He had broken a sweat during the run, but did not look overly winded. And he had had no trouble keeping up. In fact, I think he could have outdistanced me if he had wanted to.
I was vigilant the rest of the way back. There were a few more crawlers, but someone had already busted their skulls. To my left, I heard a grunt of effort and a wet crunching sound. I headed toward it and saw Hicks’ head and shoulders rise above the grass.
“Where is everybody?” I called to him.
He held up a finger, keyed his radio and said, “See any others?”
A few seconds passed, then Hicks said, “Roger. Yes. They look fine.” He looked at me and said, “Either of you bit?”
“Nope. I’m good. McGee?”
The tall soldier shook his head.
Hicks said, “Yeah, they’re all right. We’re heading in. Out.”
I looked toward the processing facility and saw Great Hawk scanning the field with Gabe’s thermal scope. He moved slowly and patiently, like he did everything else, and finally nodded in satisfaction. The three of us arrived just as he lowered his legs over the edge of the roof and dropped lightly to the ground. He motioned to us, and we followed him inside.
Most of the plant’s processing equipment was still in place. A layer of light gray dust covered everything so thickly our boots left prints on the floor. It was obvious by the condition of the machines that someone had come through a long time ago and stripped the building of anything useful. I did a mental calculation of the dimensions, and figured the space at fifty meters in length, twenty wide, and perhaps twelve feet from floor to ceiling. Pitched roof overhead, exposed wiring, pipes, and steel support beams, cinder block walls painted white, cement floor polished smooth. Empty offices at the far end of the building.