Beyond Green Fields | Book 5 | Survive [A Post-Apocalyptic Anthology]

by Lecter, Adrienne

  I have to admit, there’s a very good reason why I didn’t decide to head there right after we got inked by those assholes in Kansas—I have some suspicions who might have built up what most scavengers consider our headquarters in a world that would rather not let us through the gates. Depending on how spot on they are, we might not receive the warm welcome that they have promised us. True to operational security protocols, they don’t spill the deets over the radio of who is in charge, so we’ll have to come and see for ourselves. In the end, it’s a quiet chat with Jason himself late at night that has me decide to risk it. Chances are that the general rule of amnesty that Dispatch is promising will count for me and mine as well; at least from what he’s telling me, they are judging people on their actions after officially joining the ranks of scavengers only. The odd personal grudge superseding that, I can handle well enough.

  The night before we reach our designation, I get on the radio when Bree is out on perimeter duty, happy to have Tamara on the line right at the end of her shift. I lay out the details as best as I can—I may not know exactly why I’m in the doghouse, but the missus isn’t happy with me, and there’s a good chance that I deserve it. Her suggestion makes me guffaw at first, then laugh when she disperses my misconceptions. I know Bree will be livid when I let her traipse into that very same mental trap—and later I’m more than up to the task of making her forget all about it. A quick calculation about our ETA and her sending a runner to make the reservation, and the plan is set. Zilinsky gives me the stink-eye as I end the call, grinning from ear to ear. Yes, I’m well aware of the fact that it’s beneath me to act like such a moron around Bree, but she just brings out that side of me sometimes…

  Tension mixed with apprehension puts a great dampener on my mood the next morning, so it’s easy not to talk much while Bree drives along the winding country roads, making it possible for me not to accidentally spill the beans. Getting the first look at the forward defenses has me impressed—particularly since I have to admit that I likely missed those even farther from the city, well before the first signs they posted. I’m quite pleased when it doesn’t take long until Bree notices them as well. She still has a lot to learn, but she isn’t wrong when she harps that it’s my job to be the lookout; hers is not to kill us in a flaming ball of fire.

  Over an hour later, Dispatch itself comes into view, and I have to admit, whoever took over here did a good job—and from what little Jason has been able to tell me, that narrows down the possible names to five or six people I’ve rubbed shoulders with in the past. Call me conceited, but I’m pretty sure I’ve met whoever is running this show. On the outside, they are all about the wild-and-free lifestyle that seems to suit the scavengers well, but the very layout of the settlement and additions they have installed since it was the base we hit on our way to Wyoming last summer tells me one thing: whoever’s in charge had the very same training I’ve been through. Sure, our main focus has always been death and destruction, but no special-ops guy came out of training without knowing a lot about how to build up and train guerrilla troops and counter-insurgents. Since Dispatch seems to have established itself as a counterpoint to the settlements that have mostly been supported by what’s left of the army, I have a feeling that their base commander isn’t a marine.

  I can’t help a wry smile when they pretty much roll out the red carpet for us and the Chargers as we reach the main gate, but I don’t trust the display of friendliness. As we roll to a halt at our allotted space, I debate warning Bree to stay on guard but then decide against it. Girl needs a break, and I doubt anyone will come for her here in an effort to get to me. She’s the semi-civilian face of our illustrious operation here—and the mere fact that she’s a woman without military background has quickly turned her into a low-grade celebrity on the radio waves. The radio operators of Dispatch know her by name, and I doubt they are the only ones. She’s likely one of the safest people around town—no need to feed into her constant paranoia.

  True to my well-laid plans, I kick her out of the car and tell her to meet me at the whorehouse at 3 p.m., then drive off, leaving her standing, mouth agape, glaring after me. It’s not exactly a ruse that I’m taking the car. It really needs repairs after her driving stunts around the zombie-besieged settlement of Harristown. Depending on what equipment and parts they have, some further reinforcements than what we’ve been able to do ourselves won’t hurt, either. I bring Zilinsky and Taylor with me, leaving Romanoff to set out snooping around on his own, which is what he does best. So far, nothing has set off any warning bells at the back of my mind, and I’m confident I’m not sending us all to our swift execution.

  I’m surprised to find out that—same as for the Chargers—they already have a team waiting for our cars, but considering the state of the world out there, they likely expect every group that crashes here to need some work done. I let Zilinsky take over negotiations once I’ve explained to the lead mechanic why the Rover is not working at optimal performance, quite happy to learn that we don’t need bribes in the form of meds or ammo but can count on getting fixed up because of our budding reputation as badasses. The very idea makes me smirk while Zilinsky is, at best, exasperated. I’m sure that we’ll still find a use for the packs stuffed to the brim with meds and other shit that are worth peoples’ lives that I had Martinez prep ahead of time. So far, Dispatch is holding up surprisingly well to its self-proclaimed title as scavenger paradise.

  My mood tanks momentarily when a different mechanic—likely the one who will be working on the Rover—checks the damage again and offers up a derisive, “Typical woman driver,” comment. He misses the scathing look Zilinsky shoots him. Under different circumstances, I would have let it slide, but apparently, Bree is rubbing off on me as much as the other way round.

  “Considering that, unlike me, she’s not immune to bites, I’d say it was bona fide stunt-level driving she did when she sent the car into a mass thousands of zombies strong,” I remark quite dryly. “I’ll take that over any asshole’s opinion who hasn’t been close to mortal danger in months.”

  I don’t get a verbal answer, but he looks chastised enough. I’m sure that he’s going to bad-mouth me as soon as I’m out of earshot, but this needed to be said. I’m the only one who’s allowed to rib her for any mistakes she makes that are, in the grand scheme of things, inconsequential. Burns and Romanoff as well, but I admit that, a time or two, their comments have rubbed me the wrong way also.

  I really need to get out of my head; that much is for sure.

  I signal Zilinsky to set out, leaving Taylor to lounge around and make sure nobody fucks with the cars, but I only make it three steps before a familiar—and very unexpected—gruff voice coming from my six makes me halt in my tracks. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

  Before I turn, I silently check in with Zilinsky. She’s relaxed, giving me a barely perceptible nod. I do my best to relax as I come face to face with one of the last people I’ve expected to see here—McGillis, back then First Sergeant when he was my Search and Rescue group’s NCO and right-hand man. Last I knew, they promoted him to E-9 after I dropped out. He looks right at home here, his gear well-used but without the omnipresent layer of grime and dust that living rough on the road lends it all too easily. That makes me guess that he’s a resident. The body shop staff give him a wider berth than us, underlining that guess.

  “McGillis,” I acknowledge. Since he’s wearing neither a uniform nor any rank or unit insignia, I forgo the guessing game of what turn his military career took after we parted ways. The fact that he’s here makes me guess that, like all other scavengers, he has dropped the honors.

  “Miller,” he grunts, somehow managing to lend my name an inflection of disgust. I may have earned that. Doesn’t mean I like it.

  We stare at each other for a few more seconds, sizing one another up. He barely glances at Zilinsky and completely ignores Taylor, making me guess this is personal. He knows them both—and if I had to take a guess, he’s had a chanc
e to look over our group roster.

  When I make no move to speak up, he finally does. “I should probably say something like I’m surprised to see you here, but really, I’m not. That you dare show your face around here, definitely, but not that you’re still alive and kicking. We all know cockroaches survive even the worst nuclear winter.”

  Damn, but I’ve forgotten how judgmental the asshole can be. Maybe not forgotten, exactly, but having worked with Zilinsky at my side all the time for three years now has changed my expectations. She’s never shy to dish out criticism when needed, but our moral compasses are almost perfectly aligned, seldom warranting her to deliver a well-placed kick in the ass. Back when McGillis did her job, I was doing very different kinds of missions, usually hell-bent on exorcising my own demons. I must say, I much prefer it this way—including that if I need to clear my head, Bree is usually very up to the task of lending a hand.

  McGillis’s words probably should make me feel at least a little chastised, but the opposite is the case. I’m even a little surprised just how far removed from my old circle of guilt I feel—almost as if the apocalypse washed me clean of my sins. That’s a very long shot from the truth, but while Bree may disagree on a personal basis, my actions in the past year have given me a surprisingly good record—as far as Dispatch is concerned, if they really keep up their promise of general amnesty. So it’s with a smirk that I respond.

  “What can I say—doing the good work out there that nobody else will touch with a ten-foot pole made me hazard a guess that my people and I are welcome here. At least that’s what you’re advertising.”

  I’m not just saying that to goad him on, but also to confirm the suspicion that he’s not just a resident but pretty high up in the guard hierarchy, if not at the top. I can’t help it; I’m not important enough to get a meet-and-greet with the boss. I get a hard stare for my trouble, but rather than get in my face, McGillis has a somewhat condescending smile for me. “If playing fetch and chasing off a few undead assholes helps you feel important again, be my guest. A word of advice? Don’t get too self-important. Right now you’re a shooting star that shines very bright. Make sure you wink out just as quickly again. Maybe then you won’t need to come crawling back here to get patched up again.”

  I can’t help it; his grumbling makes me grin. “Why, worried I might tarnish your reputation?” I’ll leave it up to him whether he wants to take that personally, or for Dispatch in general.

  My taunt leaves him unfazed. “That wasn’t a threat,” he clarifies. “It’s a warning. Figured I owe you that much since you did take those damn cannibals off our doorstep.” McGillis pauses, then makes a face. “Heard you lost Bates. He was a good man.”

  “That he was.” I can easily agree on that—but can’t drop the hot potato now that it’s landed in my lap. “What exactly are you warning me of? Trouble from the brass?”

  I know I’m fishing now—and maybe traipsing into dangerous territory. I don’t need to check the back of McGillis’s neck—there will be the same three marks on there as are on mine. Leading some of the toughest sons of bitches into combat came with the privilege of knowing exactly who my heavy hitters were—and who I needed to make sure remained dead if he bit it under certain circumstances. Not all NCOs were in the know, but I’m sure he was one of them—and I’ve long since had the suspicion that one of his lesser duties used to be to spy on me. Me asking now might very well backfire if that’s still the case. Do I expect that? Not really. More likely is that whoever he reports to—quite openly—might come gunning for me directly. But you never know—and, if they really mean it when they say Dispatch is independent, his loyalties may very well have shifted. Only one way to find out.

  McGillis regards me levelly long enough that I know one thing: he’s playing the same guessing game as I am. The difference is, I couldn’t have made my shift in allegiance plainer if I’d told him about it personally, while he remains a complete mystery to me. When nothing follows, I realize that he must have come to the same conclusion—and likes things to stay that way.

  I finally acknowledge that with a curt nod, meant as much as a dismissal as a way of saying goodbye. “Are you at least going to tell me who’s running this place?” I ask when he doesn’t turn away immediately.

  His face splits into a broad grin. “Well, wouldn’t you love to know?”

  “As a matter of fact, I would.”

  He hesitates but ends up shaking his head, still grinning with mirth. “If you’re afraid it’s your best bud Hamilton, I can put your mind at ease. The likes of him aren’t welcome here.” With that, he takes his leave, Zilinsky and me both staring after him until he rounds a corner.

  I turn to her, no prompt needed to ask for her opinion. She looks unperturbed, but I don’t miss her slight frown. “That means he knows that Hamilton is still alive, and probably with the army,” she observes. “But, for now, we should be good here.”

  My guess exactly. Problem is, I don’t know how much I can trust the intel—and even less what to do with it if it turns out to be true. Nothing, probably. It’s a huge country now where twelve people can disappear off the map, simple as that. Unless they decide to stir up shit and point the finger right at themselves…

  “When you check up on what available jobs sound interesting, pick something a little more low key,” I tell her. “I think we’ve made enough of a splash for now.” A muscle in her cheek twitches, but of course she doesn’t protest. I can’t help but bark a sharp laugh. “You think I’m a coward?”

  “I think you’re being paranoid,” she lets me know. “If anyone was actively hunting you, the imbeciles in Aurora would have had a standing order to detain you, if not kill you outright. Enough time since then has passed to raise red flags if there were any to be raised.”

  “You mean, they would already have come for us?”

  She inclines her head. “I’m not saying not to watch your back here, but I doubt any attack will come from that direction. But I will keep an eye out for a boring, menial task, if that makes you happy.” I can tell that she’s laughing at me inside, her tone making that quite obvious. I do my best to ignore the smidgen of doubt flaring alive deep in my stomach. The thing is, as much as she excels at day-to-day operations, she has never quite understood exactly how deep some bonds I’ve broken run—and how badly the resulting animosity might punch me in the face. Yet I know chances are that I am being paranoid, and that’s just as bad as being overly confident.

  “Let’s hit the road,” I suggest. “If anyone knifes me in the back, let it be known that you were wrong.”

  She gives me her best “bring it on” stare, and off we go, heading in the same direction as McGillis.

  While from the outside appearing organized, Dispatch is a maze mired in chaos. I have to admit, that puts my mind more at ease than anything McGillis could have said—and the lack of mortal wounds inflicted on me in the ensuing three hours helps as well to downgrade my constant state of alertness to a much more mellow version. As Zilinsky and I take a tour around the city, we encounter a lot of familiar faces. I recognize at least twenty other serum-project soldiers, and twice that number of other former army personnel. Most of them know either me or both of us on sight, and I can’t find it in me to regret that they mostly treat me with ignorance. One or two look ready for a fight but get held back by their smarter friends. It’s actually a bunch of non-affiliated scavengers that accosts us when we scope out one of the bars, their—quite obviously drunk—leader getting in my face because he feels like we either lied about the cannibals, or otherwise didn’t deserve the boost in unit rank that Dispatch bestowed on us. Until he starts about it, I’m oblivious to that even being a possible point of contention, but after they have been taken care of—not by us but the local bouncer—the bartender lets us know that this is completely out of our hands. Any job gets allotted a set amount of points, rewarded according to how well the contract has been fulfilled. He also lets us know that because the asshole mayor
of Harristown blacklisted us and the Chargers, we got docked half of the prize. Considering that we already had to share that with the other mercs, if anything, breaking the zombie siege put us back rather than advanced our standing. The very concept that anyone would care about imaginary points on a scoreboard has Zilinsky roaring with laughter, and I can’t hold that against her. It is ridiculous. If that’s the worst that comes to haunt us, I’m game.

  The avoidance tactics of the others come with one downside: it’s damn near impossible to get solid information—that is useful to us. What we do hear is the same story over and over again: we haven’t been the only ones disappointed by the terrible reception most scavengers get from the settlements. The first few times, I can ignore the urge to want to do something about it, but by the tenth time, I have to bite down on my tongue. McGillis’s warning is still fresh on my mind—and I have absolutely no plan to be anyone’s leader beyond my merry band of misfits—but it’s hard to pretend like I don’t care. For all intents and purposes, these are my people now. If I can, I should do something to better their lives. And then there’s the latent resentment for the army that keeps coming up after a drink or five, particularly with those in the same boat as me. Most of them didn’t so much choose to be exiled over coming back to the fold, but instead had, like us, established a group and would have felt they’d abandon their families had they not stuck with them—and I have to agree that most scavenger groups have a much better chance of survival the more heavy hitters that are immune to bites and scratches they have in their ranks. Our little group is one of the most offensively capable ones, I’m sure, but more than half have setups that easily would get my approval had they asked for it. Those are capable men and women who not only survived and often have started to thrive, but who still believe that their true life’s purpose is best spent serving their country. What is Dispatch doing to put them to good use?