This Shattered Land - 02 (24 page)

“I
hate those damn things.” I growled.

A
small throng of infected was just coming over the crest of a steep hill in the
direction we had driven from earlier. Honestly, I wasn’t surprised. With all
the noise we made driving out here, I figured it was only a matter of time
before the dead showed up.

“Sarah,
why don’t you take Brian inside, I’ll take care of these things.” I said,
gesturing toward the inn. “Stay away from the windows, and try not to make any
noise until I get back.”

“I
can help you Gabe.” Brian said.

I
almost snapped at him to just do what he was told, but the eagerness in the boy’s
expression stopped me. It would be cruel to shut him down like that when all he
wanted to do was help. I walked over and looked him in the eye as I knelt down
in front of him.

“I
know you can help, Brian.” I said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not me
I’m worried about. I need you to stay with your mother. If you aren’t here,
who’s gonna look out for her? I’ll be fine on my own. I’ll work a lot better if
I know that the two of you are safe, okay?”

Brian
didn’t look entirely convinced, but he nodded anyway. He knew as well as I did
that Sarah was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. She mouthed a
silent ‘thank you’ from behind him and reached out to take her son’s hand.

“Come
on honey, let’s go inside.”

“Hang
on a second.” Brian said.

He
turned abruptly and ran over to the trailer. Sarah and I exchanged a confused
glance and followed him. The boy dug around in our gear for a few seconds and
turned to hand me a walkie-talkie.

“I
charged the batteries before we left. Put it on channel one and call me if you
get in trouble, okay?” He said.

He
handed me one of the little radios, and I smiled at him.

“Will
do. You two get on inside, now.”

Sarah
reached up to give me a brief hug, and thanked me again. Because I am a
well-trained combat operator, and consequently possess superb self-control, I
most certainly did
not
break out in goose bumps when her lips brushed my
ear. I watched the two of them go back into the building. Brian looked back and
held up his radio, pointing first at it, then at me and giving a thumbs-up sign
before closing the door behind him. I chuckled as I turned back to the trailer
to get some weapons.

If
I had left things up to Eric, we would not even have this little cart. We would
be carrying a few bare necessities on our backs and scavenging for food along
the way. That’s fine for Eric, he’s always been a bit of a minimalist, but I
say to hell with that. If we have the means to improve our quality of life on the
trail, then why not do it? I learned the hard way in Iraq and Afghanistan the
critical role that morale plays in a long-term survival situation. Anything
that makes life easier is worth having around, even if only for the positive
psychological effect. Hence the extra clothes, ammo, food, and a few other
amenities.

Several
of those amenities were the M-6 rifles that Eric found at the gun store in
Marion. Although it pained me to leave behind my beloved SCAR 16, I had to
admit that it made sense for everyone to use the same rifle. Eric was willing
to hang up the H&K that he’s been using for years, so I couldn’t really
argue with him. Besides, I still had my SCAR 17 heavy battle rifle and my
Desert Tactical .338 Lapua Magnum for anything that required a little extra
firepower to put down. I gave Eric my M-110 in case we need an extra sniper,
and he also brought along his Savage in .300 Win Mag. I have to admit I’m a
little jealous of that one; the Savage is a nice rifle even if we don’t have a
suppressor for it.

 Before
the Outbreak, I have to admit I was a bit of a gun nut. Guns were my stock and
trade, my tools, and quite often my salvation during my soldiering years. When
your job is to go into hostile and dangerous situations with armed, determined
enemies arrayed against you, an accurate and reliable firearm is absolutely
your best friend. Since a significant percentage of my adult life was spent
either training for, or directly engaged in such situations, I naturally
developed an affinity for the tools of my profession. Ergo, the extra hardware.
I grabbed an M-6, my MOLLE vest, and a few extra magazines. Between all of that
and my Falcata, I was as well armed as I could be.

Very
few people lived in this part of the country before the Outbreak. Consequently,
the number of infected we attracted with the all-terrain vehicle was relatively
small, maybe less than a hundred. I could easily handle that many with a
firearm, but my better judgment told me not to expend the ammo necessary to do
it. The walker’s front rank was wide and sparse, and it would make for easy
pickings with the axe. I angled toward the far side of the road on my right and
briefly broke into a sprint before banking hard left and passing within a few
feet of a walker. I whirled the axe overhead and broke its skull open with a
backswing on the way by. As it hit the dirt, I slowed down and switched to a
two-handed grip. The next part would require a little finesse.

Many
people think that big equals clumsy and slow. I can’t speak for everyone, but
in my case nothing could be further from the truth. I am far quicker and more
agile than my stature would suggest. As I passed by the next few infected, I
alternated between running to cover the distance between them, and executing a
spin move reminiscent of a dancer’s pirouette. The axe blade flashed crimson
and black in the afternoon sun, and with each turn, I ventilated the brain of
another ghoul. It took less than twenty seconds to destroy the vanguard of the
horde and take off into the woods beyond the edge of the road. I slowed to a
brisk walk once I put some space between us, and started belting out a bawdy
little drinking song I learned many years ago from a British royal marine. Unlike
Eric, I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, but I have a deep voice, and I can be
very loud when I want to be.

I
kept up my pace and sang as loud as I could until I reached the crest of the
tall hill. The slope was steep, and I have to admit to being a little winded by
the time I reached the top. I make an effort to stay in shape, but I ain’t
nineteen anymore. I leaned down and put my hands on my knees, taking a few
moments to catch my breath while watching the infected stumble and grope their
way up the hill. What they lacked in grace they more than made up for with determination.
The undead simply do not get tired.

The
infected were only approaching up one side of the mountain, and I probably
could have just run back and forth making them trip over themselves while picking
them off one by one. I could have, but I didn’t. Sometimes I am a lazy man, and
the weight of my rifle hanging from my back was just too tempting. I propped
the axe up against a tree, turned the M-6 around on its tactical sling, and
leveled it at the closest walker. It had been a young woman once, and judging
by what was left of her face and body, she had even been attractive. Now she
was just another withered, ravaged corpse cursed with an insatiable, eternal
hunger. I didn’t feel bad about pulling the trigger and spraying her brain on
the tree behind her. The way I saw it, I was doing her a kindness. I sure hope
that someone does the same for me if I ever turn.

I
let off twenty shots at one-second intervals, and left twenty twitching corpses
for the crows. The rest of them started to close in, so I shouldered my weapon,
picked up my axe, and set off down the hill at a jog. Now I had to be careful.
One wrong step, one turned ankle or sprained knee, and I was as good as dead. I
ignored the sounds of the infected behind me so that I could concentrate on
where I put my feet. Loose stones riddled the hillside, and deeply carved
furrows left behind by centuries of rain made the going difficult. I distanced
myself a few dozen yards from the undead before stopping to reassess my
situation.

Looking
behind me, I saw that I had thinned the horde a bit, but there were still more
than enough undead to ruin my day. I cursed under my breath and tried to come
up with an idea for how to deal with them. Where I was standing, I was in the
trough of a saddle between two broad mountains with tall, steep slopes rising
up in every direction. No matter which way I turned, I had a long exhausting
climb ahead of me. I could easily outpace the undead, but I was not sure if I
could get far enough ahead to double back behind them without being noticed. I’m
in good shape for a guy pushing forty, but I am not even close to the distance
runner that I used to be. Usually, I leave this kind of work up to Eric.

As
I looked up the incline, I saw the walkers following me trip over the same
rough terrain that I had just carefully traversed. I would like to say that it
slowed them down and gave me time to think, but such was not the case. Tumbling
ass-over-head down the mountain actually speeded the rotten things up. Heavy corpses
flopped into the basin around me like a foul smelling avalanche.  

I
hefted the axe in one hand and drew my Falcata with the other. A ghoul was
trying to get back on its feet barely ten feet away. I trotted over to it and
split its skull with the axe. An overhand slash of my short-sword greeted
another one standing up nearby, splitting its head in half down to the neck.
The blade lodged in the creatures jaw, and I had to kick it in the gut to break
free. Making a mental note not to swing so damn hard next time, I approached
the next corpse and slammed my axe into its brain.

I
worked my up and down the bottom of the hill a few times whirling my weapons in
a figure eight pattern. Ghouls died in my wake as in a constant whirlwind of
sharpened steel. Unfocusing my mind allowed my instincts to take over. My eyes
coordinated with my feet to avoid stumbling on the rocky slope, and my ribcage
expanded around deep rapid breaths that fed oxygen to the muscles in my arms
and shoulders. Without really intending to, I kept mental count of the number
of dead I put down. Right about the time I got to twenty-four I realized that
the ghouls were tumbling down the slope faster than I could keep up, and that
if I didn’t create some breathing room soon I was going to be surrounded.

That
is the key to beating these things, really. Just keep moving and don’t let them
surround you. Easier said than done.

With
a quick count, I estimated that I had taken down about half of the horde. I ran
partway up the slope behind me and laid my blades on the ground next to a flat
boulder jutting out from the hillside. The boulder looked comfortable enough,
so I sat down and reached back for my rifle. Now that I was above it, I could
see the infected I had killed formed an interwoven line of corpses along the
curve of the basin below. The remaining undead tripped over them as they struggled
up the hill, further slowing them down. Good. That was just what I needed. I
lined up my rifle and started picking shots.

I
exhausted the last ten rounds in the magazine, then replaced it with a fresh
one and burned down thirty more infected. That left just over a dozen still
moving. For that small of a number, it wasn’t worth it to use up any more
ammunition. I was about to take up my blades and finish the job when an idea
popped into my head. I took out the walkie-talkie that Brian gave me.

“Brian,
you listening? Over.”

A
second or two went by, and then Brian’s voice crackled through the speaker.

“Uh,
right here, Gabe. I’m here. You okay?”

I
smiled. “No, this is my ghost on the radio, genius. And say ‘over’ when you
finish talking, over.”

“Sorry
about that. Do you need any help?” There was a few seconds pause, and then he
keyed the mike again. “Uh, over.”

“Make
sure the parking lot is clear and then meet me outside, out.”

I
stuffed the radio in my pocket and picked my way down the embankment. There
were only three undead between me and the hill that led back to the road. I
dispatched them with the axe, and started climbing back up the slope on the
other side. With the axe tucked into my belt, I had one free hand to grip saplings
and tree trunks to haul myself up the mountain. Some old shrapnel wounds burned
and ached in my side, and the soreness in my knees let me know that I was not
getting any younger. I was tired and more than a little winded by the time I
reached to the two-lane road leading back to the hostel. I could hear the last
nine or ten infected moaning and scrambling in the brush behind me. I stopped
to catch my breath and make sure that they followed me before turning back down
the road to the inn.

Normally,
I don’t really pay that much attention to my appearance, but seeing Sarah
standing in the parking lot made me realize that I was sweating, disheveled,
dirty, and that my hands were covered in pine sap. I was going to have to take
another bath.

Brian
stood next to his mother with his MP5. He looked tense, his head swiveling
around every few seconds to search for enemies. Sarah seemed alert, but
collected, a stark contrast to her son’s eager nervousness. She held the M6
that Eric gave her in a relaxed grip, her finger off the trigger and pointing
down the side of the rifle. If I didn’t know better, I would swear that she had
served in the military. Seeing her standing there with her long red hair pulled
back in a ponytail and a pair of aviator sunglasses shading her eyes got my
heart beating a little faster.