by J. F. Holmes
Here, though, was apparently just some brutal weeding-out process he didn’t understand. For his whole career, since the Apocalypse anyway, Cahill had been in mechanized infantry units. When a horde got too big to handle, you just climbed back into your Bradley and drove the hell over them. The only crappy part was washing the blood, guts, and bones off your track when you got back to the FOB. The men under him had pretty much been draftees, pressed into service for the duration of the emergency. Put ’em in a line, point ’em at the undead, and tell ’em to shoot, head high.
There’d been that one time, though, when his track had an engine failure, and they’d had to sit listening to the howling outside for almost a day before a relief force came. That had sucked ass, sitting in the broiling Colorado sun, slowly cooking in their own juices. It was one of the reasons he’d thought to try out for the Scouts, a little freedom of movement; being trapped had become one of Cahill’s only fears.
This, though. This truly sucked. He slapped at another mosquito, eyes trying to pierce the darkness. A quarter moon had just risen, throwing a soft, barely perceptible light that was mostly blocked by the trees. Every movement seemed to be an undead but turned out just to be bats or other night creatures. He wished desperately for a set of night vision, but the cadre hadn’t seen fit to issue any.
Back to back with him sat Sergeant Badger, sharing the second half of his watch with him. They talked quietly, the low murmur of their voices covered up by the nonstop barking of frogs and chirping of crickets. Jonas and Mary, who they’d been teamed up with, tried to sleep ten feet away up in the branches of a large tree.
“What do you think, Master Sergeant? You gonna quit?” asked Badger.
“Hell no. I’m not going to give them the satisfaction. Maybe,” he said, slapping at a mosquito, “after this bullshit is done.”
“I dunno. I can see the sense of have civilians with us, and those guys seem pretty damn tough. Zivcovic handed you your ass.”
“He sucker-punched me,” protested the other man.
“Yeah, well, I guess you’ve gotta be sneaky in this business. It’s not like the undead play by any rules.”
“That’s the thing, though. They DO have rules,” said Cahill. “Listen, I’ve been on the Line for almost ten years now. Yeah, I’ve fought some Mountain Republic dipshits, but mostly undead, and you just draw them in and blast them. If it gets to be too many, you call in CAS or jump in your Brad and fall back.”
Badger grunted, then said, “Wish I’d had a Bradley or an M-1 when we were walking across the country. Hell, I wish we’d had guys like this to tell us where to go and where not to go.”
“Was it that bad?” asked Cahill. He‘d heard about the 82nd’s march from Mexico.
“Sometimes. Mostly it was the devastation that got me,” answered Badger. “You know how it was. Like when you break a belt on an engine. Everything else goes to shit and the motor – ah, fuck me.”
He stopped because the cold metal of a pistol barrel was pressed up against the back of his head. Cahill, likewise, had a strong arm around his throat, and the point of a knife just digging into his lower back.
“The people you’re going to be going up against,” said a harsh voice in Cahill’s ear, “are alive because they’re good. All the ones who run their mouths are dead.” Zivcovic then proceeded to apply pressure, cutting off oxygen to the Master Sergeant’s brain, and the younger man blacked out.
When he awoke, it was still dark, and Sister Mary was gently slapping his face. Seeing that he was awake, she stopped and sat back, then handed him a canteen. Cahill took it and drank some but said nothing.
“You know,” said the woman, in a quiet voice, “Jonas and I heard them coming. But the Lord works in mysterious ways, and you’re a conceited ass who needed a lesson.” She laughed quietly to herself, then said, “I just didn’t think it would be that devil Zivcovic who’d teach it.”
“Don’t feel so bad, Master Sergeant, I’ve been doing this a while, and that Major Lowenstein had me dead cold,” said Badger.
Cahill said nothing; he had a lot to think about.
Chapter 302
Night on the second day took forever to fall, like it always did that far north in the summer. Fireflies, unconcerned with undead or apocalypses, started flashing, calling for mates, when Zivcovic called a stop. By his pace count, they’d done thirty-one miles that day through the hills, and were down to ten recruits, seven soldiers and three civilians. The mountain they’d just walked over had been the final straw for the last three.
Agostine was glad to see that both Jonas and the woman who called herself Sister Mary were still with them. He loved the quiet determination that civilian survivors showed, having spent months by himself in the wild. To his irritation, though, Master Sergeant Cahill still stood, if not at the front of the line, certainly not at the back.
“I thought,” he told Zivcovic as the Serb lit a cigarette, “I told you to break him.”
Ziv snorted and said nothing, just gazed up at the stars. He’d enjoyed sneaking up on the Master Sergeant last night, and even more so choking him out, but he also admired the man’s drive.
It was Brit who answered him with a laugh, saying, “Cahill’s just like you, you know. A stubborn ass who’s going to accomplish his mission if it kills him.”
“Well,” her husband answered, “there’s more to being a scout than walking.” He moved over to the group and called them around in a circle. Most took a knee to support the heavy packs; all were obviously exhausted.
“Listen up!” he started, “over the next rise is the town of Dorset. It has about a hundred survivors and is the local trading hub around here. They are VERY leery of outsiders, but that’s where you’re going to spend the night. Or not. It all depends on how YOU act when you get to their gates.”
One man raised his hand, and Agostine said, “Yes, Sergeant Badger?”
“The Third Amendment was suspended nine years ago. Why can’t we just walk in? And aren’t you friends with these people?”
“Good questions,” the Colonel answered, glad it wasn’t Cahill who’d asked. “Yes, we do know these people, but they don’t know you’re coming, and we’re not going in there. My team will be spending the night out in the woods. Try not to get yourselves shot, and if you kill any civilians, don’t bother coming back.”
Zivcovic flashed his light, and they started to get up. “One thing, before you move out. Mister Jonas is in charge. You OK with that, Dale?” he asked the man.
“As long as everyone follows –” the farmer started to say, but was cut off by an angry Master Sergeant Cahill.
“This is BULLSHIT!” he bellowed, finally fed up with everything. “We’re on a military op, and you’re putting a civilian in charge? Those survivors should be goddamned happy to see Federal Troops, and we have the right to commandeer housing!” He was still smarting from the night before and felt that he had to reassert his authority.
O’Neill answered before Agostine could lash out at the man. “Master Sergeant, we’re just giving the right man the right job. I admire your discipline in the face of battle, and fortitude, but let’s just say that diplomacy isn’t your forte.”
To Agostine’s surprise, the NCO shut up. What was it about Brit that everyone listened to? He shook his head and took up a position at the rear of the column as they made their way down the cracked pavement.
As they walked, the scout stepped carefully around objects glistening in the moonlight. Occasionally he moved one aside with his boot, but Agostine tried hard to respect the dead. As the moon rose, he saw that a path had been cleared through the thousands of bones that lined the road.
“What the hell is this shit?” asked Hildebrand, the reporter snapping pictures with a low-light camera.
“You don’t get out much, do you?” answered Brit, shaking her head in wonder.
“It’s the dead, Steve,” said Agostine. “Haven’t you ever seen a pile at a barricade?”
T
he reporter hesitated, then said, “No. I report on wars and combat, never the aftermath. Is it like this everywhere?”
“Well,” said Brit, “Yes and no. I’ll explain what happened here. When the apocalypse started, people’s instincts were to run for the hills. Right up this way is pretty much how far a lot of NYC civilians got to before they ran out of gas.” She stopped and picked up a skull to show him, a small child with an entry hole in the back of its head, and a large chunk blown out of her face. “Probably the mother was carrying the baby, facing the bullets, with her child held in front of her. At least the kid didn’t see it coming.”
“More like how far they could walk AFTER they ran out of gas,” interjected Agostine.
“Like I was saying,” said Brit, and her husband could almost hear her doing an eyeroll, “how far they could get before they ran out of supplies. Then a bunch of unarmed New York urban dwellers came up against some very determined, and well-armed, Vermont farmers. No SAFE Act here in Vermont.”
She paused, as if remembering the things she’d seen over the years, then continued, “It was a scene repeated all over the country. Disarmed city dwellers, unable to fight the undead, made their own hordes and, where they could, picked the countryside clean. More often than not, rural people defending their towns exhausted their ammo on the civilians and were helpless against the undead. You were lucky in Seattle.”
“I was, and I’m the first to admit it,” answered the reporter. “Though I do know how shitty the world can be.”
All three walked in silence for a while as the lights grew closer, thinking about the immediate aftermath of the plague. Agostine trying to defend the bridges, O’Neill watching as her classmates died, Hildebrand catching the last flight out of Afghanistan.
They were brought up short by a cry of “HALT!” from up on the walls surrounding the village. Bright spotlights replaced the soft torchlight that had glowed inside, shining directly in their faces.
“Get that damned light out of our faces!” shouted Cahill, who hadn’t slept at all the night before in the swamp. “UNITED STATES ARMY! OPEN YOUR GATES!”
“Uh oh,” said Brit, as she and Nick jogged forward, “I want to see this one!”
Chapter 303
They got with fifty feet but hung back to watch. Cahill again shouted at the wall, and violently shrugged off Jonas when he tried to put a calming hand on him. The rest of the group sat back and took the opportunity to rest sore feet, sitting on their packs.
“HEY! OPEN THE EFFING GATE! FEDERAL TROOPS!” yelled Cahill again, and Jonas shook his head in disgust.
He was answered by a woman with a bullhorn, her New England accent played up. “We don’t recognize federal authority in the Kingdom of Vermont!” Her pronouncement was accompanied by laughter from others behind the lights. There was also a suppressed round of laughs from the resting troops.
Brit said, “Fifty bucks he takes a shot!” and Doc Swan took her bet.
“You have too much faith in human nature, Bella,” said Brit to the older woman.
She smiled and answered, “Comes with the job.”
They could see the Master Sergeant pacing back and forth, obviously frustrated with the situation. Agostine could almost sympathize with him; the urge to solve a problem with violence often came naturally to a combat veteran.
Cahill stopped his pacing and turned to face the lights again. “THE THIRD AMENDMENT WAS SUSPENDED BY –” and he was interrupted again by the woman on the wall.
“TAKES A TWO THIRDS MAJORITY OF STATES TO REPEAL AN AMENDMENT!” she shouted back. There was more laughter from behind the lights.
“Why you, goddamnit!” and he raised his rifle, stopping when he saw a red laser dot dancing across his chest.
“Colonel Agostine,” said the civilian Jonas, “can you stop this before it gets out of hand?”
“Nope.”
Jonas sighed and went over to where Cahill stood, undecided what to do next. This was way outside his experience zone. “Sarge,” said the farmer, “You gave it a shot; let me try. We got nothing to lose except another night out in the woods, and I’m kinda tired.”
Cahill stormed off in frustration, and Jonas ignored the red dot on his own chest. “Hey, new negotiator here!” he said loudly, but not harshly.
“Speak your piece, stranger!” said the woman.
Jonas paused, and said, “My name’s Jonas, and what’s yours, Ma’am? I’m a civilian, not a soldier.”
Her answer came back much more lighthearted, “Doctor Jean McCall, mayor of the fine town of Dorset. Now put up or shut up, Mr. Jonas!”
What followed was ten minutes of negotiations. In return for two hundred rounds of .223 ammo, the group would be allowed to sleep in the town hall and use shower facilities, and all long arms must be stacked under guard in the town hall, though they could keep their pistols.
“And you tell Colonel Agostine that he and his wife have to come have breakfast with me in the morning. YES, YOU, I SEE YOU STANDING BACK THERE, GIMP!” she said, raising her voice at the end as the gate creaked open. The lights were flicked off, and they could see an armored tractor sitting behind it, diesel engine slowly ticking over. Sergeant Cahill stood back as the group filed into the town, and asked Agostine to give him a minute before he left.
He hesitated before speaking, then said, “That tractor would have eaten our lunch if I’d kept things up.” His voice was subdued, as if he was having a hard time getting the words out.
“Not your lunch. You’d have been dead long before the gate opened to let it out; that laser pointer was just to scare you. I’m pretty sure there’s a sniper’s post about five hundred meters up that hill, with a really good shot looking at the side of your head through a night vision scope.”
Cahill glanced upward towards the darkness, finally realizing how exposed he’d been. “I guess…I guess I’m a bit out of my element.”
“Bet your stuck up Regular Army ass you are!” exclaimed O’Neill with a laugh.
“Ah, can you give us a minute, Brit?” asked Agostine. She raised her right hand and the mechanical middle finger slowly raised itself in Cahill’s direction, then laughed and headed for their truck. “Gotta settle up my bet with Doc,” she called over her shoulder.
“I can’t imagine what it would be like if I really pissed her off,” said Cahill.
“Trust me, you don’t want to see it. She almost likes you, believe it or not. She thinks we’re very alike, stubborn asses.”
They both laughed at that, then Cahill said, “Listen, I’m man enough to admit when I’m wrong. This,” and he made a waving motion with his hand, indicating everything around them, “this scouting stuff is a lot different than what I’m used to. In fact, I think that Badger or Vasquez would probably make better team leaders than me.”
“Those two are shooters. You point them in the right direction, take their leash off, and let them go.”
“Like Zivcovic?”
“Um, no,” said Agostine, “Ziv is his own man. There’s no leash on him, except his crush on Brit.”
“I’m not going to ask,” said the younger man.
“Good, don’t. Point is, you’re a leader, and you wouldn’t have those stripes if you weren’t. You just have to understand there’s one way to do one thing, and another way to do another thing.”
Cahill let out a deep breath, seeming to let some of the tension out of his body. “I’ll be on the next barge out of here, though I’ve never quit anything in my life.”
“Good, saves me from writing your transfer orders to command IST-13,” answered Agostine. “I hate paperwork.”
It took a minute for that to sink into Cahill’s mind, and then he grinned in the torchlight. “Guess I better see to my people, Colonel!”
“Don’t thank me; up until two minutes ago I was trying to decide whether to send you home or have you shot before you got someone killed. If you hadn’t done some self-reflection, you’d have been on that barge.”
Cahill stuck out his hand, and Agostine shook it, hard. “I’ll let you pick your team from whomever is left. Seven is the best number, and I’d recommend Vasquez, Badger, Jonas and Sister Mary as a minimum.”
“She’s a weirdo,” answered Cahill.
“She’s a survivor. You can learn a lot from her. From both of them.”
Chapter 304
Agostine sat in his office, waiting for a satellite hookup for his Skype session with JSOC. Brit sat across from him, ignoring him, or pretending too.
“What’s bothering you?” he asked, knowing his wife.
“Nothing,” she answered, still looking around.
“Uh huh.” Since they still had another ten minutes until the briefing, he turned and looked out the window, where his cadre was teaching tactics to the remaining recruits. He laughed to himself as Vasquez dumped Elam on his ass and fired two airsoft pellets into his head at four feet. A hit anywhere except in the googles was going to hurt.
“Nick, it was too easy. Cahill should have taken a lot longer to break,” said Brit.
“Maybe, maybe not,” he answered. “He’s not stupid, and if he couldn’t shift his tactical thinking somewhat, he’d have been dead a long time ago.”
“OK, I’ll grant you that. But I just get the heebie jeebies when things go too well. First round through and we came up with a bunch of people with good potential? I don’t believe it.”
She was right, and he knew it. Over the last ten years, whenever there seemed to be a respite, something else came up. The last time, Brit had lost her hand. He turned to face her and said, “Well, what do you want me to do?”
“Retire. Stay home. Raise our kids.” Her one good eye gazed steadily at him, a scrutiny she always used to good effect.
“And miss all the fun?” he answered, trying to lighten the mood. There was no answer, and he sighed. The same old argument. “Listen, I’m not going to do any small-scale stuff anymore. But if something really important comes up, something vital to the security of the country, I HAVE to go. For our kids’ sake.”