That made Ballantine frown. He walked back to the right side of the cab and looked down at the ruddy-faced man sitting in the right seat. “What do you mean by that, guy?”
The engineer shrugged. “I mean, there could be anything up ahead. Busted rail. An abandoned train. A stuck signal. Vehicle traffic lying on a crossing. Lots of stuff could go wrong.” He patted the radio. “No one’s broadcasting anything, all signal lights are dark, and we’ve been announcing our intentions over the radio. As far as I know, there’s no one monitoring and reporting track conditions. So while we’re on our way right now, we could come to a quick stop, you know?”
Ballantine nodded. He’d known all of that, of course. But it was difficult to reconcile the knowledge with the general sense of invincibility he felt at being on the train. He’d been able to forget, if only for the past half hour or so, that he and the rest of his troops—and his family—were still in grave danger. Fort Indiantown Gap had fallen, despite the combined firepower of thousands of Army troops, assisted by civilians willing to fight. They’d had the training. They’d had the experience—no one who had lasted this long had made it by sheer luck, they’d all had to fight their way out of more than one box. They’d had the equipment, everything from helicopters to armored vehicles to crew-served weapons. They’d had the intelligence detailing enemy movements, courtesy of the unmanned aerial vehicles that could fly out and detect the hordes while they were still over the horizon. They’d had the defenses, organized into fatal funnels and kill zones, so that thousands of the reekers could be killed in an hour or less. But they hadn’t planned on the numbers. They could handle ten, even twenty thousand. But not a hundred thousand, all coming at once from different directions. Despite all the planning and preparations, the Gap was just too big to defend. But Ballantine’s commanding officer had known that all along; that’s why Hastings had wanted the trains in the first place.
But we’re still not safe, he told himself. We’re not out of danger, and we might never be.
Ballantine had to keep it in his mind that, yes, everyone he knew and loved were onboard a speeding train, leaving tens of thousands of zombies behind. But the chances that hundreds of thousands of dead lurked somewhere ahead was approaching a hundred percent. He had to be ready for that.
And stopping the train meant that it would be vulnerable to the dead’s massing attacks. Coming to a full halt would doom the train the same way a full stop would kill a Great White shark. The reekers would be able to roll over the train’s cars and cover them beneath thousands of squirming, cold corpses. There were hundreds of troops on the train, and just as many armed civilians, but they wouldn’t be able to hold out for long. The dead were already dead, and the only thing they had to
Stopping, even for a short time, would be a bad thing.
“When will we need to refuel?” he asked.
The engineer glanced at the instrument panel before him. “Might not have to. We might be able to keep going straight on—we’ve got over four thousand gallons of diesel, so statistically, we could get to where we’re headed without having to take on any fuel at all. We only need about two hundred and fifty gallons to get from here to Colorado Springs, if all goes well. But that’s not gonna happen, though. We’ll need to stop eventually, and we’ll burn fuel idling. If nothing else, just to switch over to different tracks.”
“Okay. When do we roll up on the first switch?”
“It’s going to be a bit. Call it an hour and ten minutes, if we can keep this rate of speed. Nice long straightaway for the time being,” the engineer said.
“How long will it take to switch to another set of tracks?”
The engineer shrugged. “If there’s power at the switching station, not long. If there isn’t, we’ll have to turn it manually. If everything’s fine and nothing’s been damaged, then it should take just a few minutes. But if something’s wrong, or if there’s a dead train on the tracks, then that’s going to be a problem.”
Ballantine frowned. “Dead train?”
The engineer looked up at him briefly. “Sergeant, we don’t have a clue what we’re going to run into. Crews usually leave their trains in the rail yards, but if someone had an accident, or if they had to abandon their consist—we might come across an abandoned train, and that’s going to be a problem. We can push them out of the way a bit, but that’s going to take fuel and a lot of time. Anything that can slow us down is going to slow us down for quite a bit.”
“Can you define ‘a bit’?” Ballantine asked.
“Who do I look like, Carnac the Magnificent? You want to give me an envelope to hold to my head?”
Ballantine didn’t know what the guy was talking about, and he wondered if the guy had already experienced a rail problem—like his mind had flown right off them. “Who?”
“Johnny Carson? The Tonight Show? Carnac the Magnificent? Ring any bells?”
“Yeah, The Tonight Show wasn’t big in my house. So how long is ‘a bit’?” Ballantine said.
“Half an hour. An hour. A day. Won’t know until we see it, Sergeant.”
“These aren’t the days where we should just kind of wait and see, man,” Ballantine said.
The engineer shrugged. “It is what it is, buddy. It is what it is.”
Ballantine regarded the rails stretching out before the locomotive. They ran all the way to the horizon. “Yeah, and it’s a bag of dicks.”
###
The convoy slowed as it approached the intersection. A few abandoned cars had been parked haphazardly on the sides of the road, some with their doors standing wide open. Whoever had been driving them had bailed in a hurry. Just the same, Hastings didn’t see any bodies or reekers—just large, open agriculture fields on each side of the road. The roadway was deserted, with the exception of a house and what looked like a small cow farm on the northwest corner of the intersection. As they rounded the corner Hastings saw several cows on the road. More were in the pen behind the house.
“Slater, tell the convoy to watch out for cows on the road when they come through the intersection,” he said over his shoulder.
Slater stood up and peered through the windshield, probably to see if he could put eyes on the cows Hastings was talking about. He wasn’t able to, so he sat back down.
“Roger that, sir.”
Hastings heard Slater speaking to the rest of the convoy over the radio a moment later, alerting them to the approaching phase line and the cow hazard. Hastings was certain the bovine alarm would earn a few chuckles down the line. After all, cows weren’t really that large a threat when contrasted against reekers.
After he’d completed the transmission, Slater said, “You know we could always pull over and snatch up one of those cows, sir. I’ve done a few animal renditions in my time. The technical term is ‘battlefield recovery,’ if I recall correctly.”
“Animal rendition …? Seriously?”
“Captain, you go to West Point?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, then I won’t bother telling you about the cow, sir. But yes, we did that on occasion. You can get a lot of cooperation when you come bearing livestock.”
Hastings considered that for a moment. Part of his brain was thinking that wasn’t a bad idea, the other half was wondering where they’d actually put a cow. Would they kill it and butcher it on the side of the road, or would they load it up on a vehicle and keep on driving?
And how the hell do you catch a cow? All Hastings knew about rustling livestock came from watching the film City Slickers as a child.
“Alive or dead?” he yelled back to Slater.
“Alive, if possible.”
“Sergeant … where the fuck are we gonna put a live cow, man?”
“That’s no sweat, sir. We have some room in the back of the five-tons with the POL blivets. We just need to get him up there and tie him to the truck’s anchor points. Easy peasy, mac and cheesy and Bob’s your uncle.”
“I don’t know what the fuck you ju
st said, but how long will that take you to do that?”
Slater came forward again as the rest of the soldiers in the MRAP snapped awake. The Special Forces NCO knelt between the MRAP’s front seats and peered out the windshield at the cows that were slowly taking notice of the approaching column.
“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes tops, I’m thinking,” Slater replied after a moment. “I’m sure a few of the other guys in the convoy have worked around cows before. Besides, those look like dairy cows. And a few look like they have halters on them—we just need to attach a sling rope to one and lead it onto the five-ton.”
“How you plan on getting a cow up there?”
Slater held up a hand. “Wait, never mind. I see a cattle trailer. Right there. See it?” He pointed out the windshield, and Hastings looked in the direction Slater indication. There was in fact a covered trailer positioned alongside the house.
“Yeah, I see it …”
“We can just load them on the cattle trailer and hook it to the dually pickup we have in the back of the convoy, sir. It was made for that kind of thing,” Slater said.
“Yeah, okay. But why?”
Slater looked at Hastings as if he was stupid. “Uh … steak? Ribs? Milk? Sir, you’re not one of those Commie vegans, are you? Because if you are, there’s plenty of grazing land out here. Hop out and get your roughage.”
Hastings barked a laugh. “No, Sergeant—I like my steak.” Just the same, he began to think that Slater was on to something here. Everyone would enjoy a fresh steak and some ribs. If nothing else, the people in the column could chow down on fresh beef product for a few days—and it would sure as shit beat eating MREs.
“Jones, when you make the turn onto 34, pull off to the side of the road about hundred meters down from the intersection and stop. We’re going to take a tactical pause.”
“Roger that, sir—I smell what you’re cooking up,” Jones said with a huge smile on his face. “Now if only we can get some dry rub …”
“I don’t know about that, Jones. But if we give Slater here enough time, he might be able to churn up some butter for us.” To Slater: “Do me a solid and let the rest of the convoy know the plan. We’re stopping a hundred meters down the road from the intersection. Give me a tactical stop formation and make sure War Eagle and Eagle One are covered. You’ve got fifteen minutes to catch a cow and then we are un-assing this rodeo of yours. Clear?”
“Clear, sir. I’ll take the dually crew right into the yard and six pax from the other vehicles to help pull security and wrangle us some chow on the hoof. If we make contact we’ll fall back to the convoy. If we have a break in contact, we’ll link up on the south side of Mount Holly twenty-four hours later.”
“Don’t make me regret this, Slater. Fifteen minutes and then we roll. We can’t stay parked here.”
“Copy all, sir.”
The MRAP slowed to a stop and Slater exited through the ramp at its back. The radio squawked to life as Slater started directing his team into action. So far, so good, large open fields on all sides with fences around them and no reekers to be seen for miles. Hastings listened to the radio as Slater continued to maneuver his team to the farmhouse. Hastings wondered if cow rustling was still a punishable crime. He also wondered if he could get Cornell to give them all a Presidential pardon after the fact, just in case. Fifteen minutes later Hastings heard Slater come over the radio.
“Crusader One One, this is Papa Zero Three. Over.”
“Papa Zero Three, Crusader One One. Go.”
“Crusader One One, jackpot. I repeat, jackpot. Cow Team Six is good to go. I am headed to your position at this time, all other pax loaded up and ready to roll. Thirty seconds out. Over.”
Cow Team Six? “Roger. Good copy.”
Hastings heard a knock on the back of the vehicle less than half a minute later and he turned as the ramp lowered and Slater climbed into the vehicle. As soon as he was clear of the ramp, the door closed. Slater picked his way to the front of the MRAP, weapon still in hand.
“All up, sir. Let’s roll.”
“You have a lifetime supply of beef jerky on hand, Sergeant?”
“Well. For as long as you’re going to live, sir.”
Hastings laughed at that. “Okay, Jones. You heard the man … let’s roll.”
“Hooah on that, sir.”
Hastings broadcast over the convoy net that the column was on the move again. As soon as they had started down 34 South/Holley Pike, he turned back and called out to Slater. “Cow Team Six, huh? So you gonna tell me what the hell happened back there?”
Slater snorted as the rest of the soldiers in the MRAP turned to him. “You really want the story, sir?”
“You know it.” Hastings faced forward again. Eyes out, always.
“Well, sir, Cow Team Six successfully infiltrated the Operational Area approximately fifteen minutes ago and executed a bovine extraction. The dually team moved the extraction platform into position and secured the transportation vehicle as the remainder of the team flanked the compound. Alpha team set up near and far side security as the assault force moved stealthily into the compound without alerting its occupants. The assault force was successful in capturing the intended targets and moving them into the extraction platform, where they were secured for transport. At twelve minutes into the mission the team successful exfilled the target area and moved to the link-up point. All men and equipment are accounted for, no casualties and four each C-O-Ws from the target deck were detained.”
Hastings and everyone inside the vehicle all laughed out loud, the kind of laughter that comes from deep in the belly and makes it hard to breath. It was just the thing that everyone needed. In other circumstances it might not have been as funny, but in this one it was hysterical and provided the men the emotional release they needed. Not much had been funny lately and no one had laughed that hard in a while. It was clear to Hastings that this was going to be one of those stories that would be told for a long time to come within the group when people needed a good laugh. The fact that Slater had been able to rattle off the report so eloquently and in a manner that was typically reserved for formal debriefings to senior officers was impressive. Slater continued to surprise Hastings as he got to know the man more each day.
“Sounds like you had everything under control, Master Sergeant,” he said. “I do have a question though. Did you say you took four C-O-Ws?”
“Yes, sir. Once we were on the objective we realized that it was going to be relatively easy to secure more HVTs than previously planned. They pretty much followed one another onto the transport vehicle.”
“I figured you’d get one or two at the most. But four? How are we going to feed them?”
“Already got that covered, sir. The transportation vehicle had plenty of hay bales placed inside when we secured it. It’s probably the reason they pretty much ran into the vehicle when we dropped the gate. We should be good for a while as far as food for them goes. But I don’t think we have to worry about them being around for very long, if you know what I mean. However, given the number we have, it might be worth keeping one or two around just for the milk we could get from them. I hear you officers like fresh milk with your coffee in the mornings.”
Hastings smiled and shook his head. “Interesting. I’ll take that information under advisement, Master Sergeant.”
###
As the train roared down the tracks, Diana Li looked over at Kenny. He had initially been excited when the train took off from Fort Indiantown Gap, chugging away as its diesel engines began moving the load along the rails. The soldiers on the flat cargo cars continued shooting at zombies as they drew closer to the long consist, and Kenny flinched at every report. But as the National Guard training facility and the thousands of zombies that had overrun it fell behind, the firing tapered off. Soon, the only noises that entered the passenger coach were those of a long train hurtling down steel rails. The sound and repetitive rhythm of the train’s progress apparently agreed with the
slight boy. His eyelids grew heavy, and he slowly leaned into Diana and fell asleep. He snored gently every now and then, his breathing heavy and deep.
For her part, Diana relaxed bit by bit and sank against the seat cushions as the tension slowly drained out of her. The little Sig-Sauer rifle she’d taken possession of was still slung across her chest and she shifted it away from him. Even though the safety was on, Kenny was generally unpredictable and it was just common sense to keep control of a loaded firearm while he was nearby. She was thrilled that the boy had drifted off to sleep. Even he had limits, though it had taken him going bat-shit crazy during the zombie attack on the barracks she and the rest of the civilians had been housed in to finally run his battery out.
It just means he’s not going to sleep later, she told herself. The guy’s going to be up all night.
Diana sighed at the thought. The little autistic boy had latched onto her something fierce, and she couldn’t go anywhere without him glomming onto her like some sort of symbiotic life form. She understood that she was the only person he’d known before his parents had been killed—not by zombies, but by lawless men who had used the rise of the zombie apocalypse to crawl out of whatever survivalist cave they lived in to perpetuate crimes against their fellow survivors—and that to him, there was great comfort in her presence. The kid didn’t care that she was a former stripper who’d balled men for money and drugs. All he knew was that she was a calming presence, and he couldn’t get along without her in sight.
That was, as the saying went, a total drag.
Reaching over him, she checked the status of Kenny’s diaper. Despite all of the activity of the past few hours, it was amazingly still dry. That was a switch. She’d almost shit herself when she’d had to chase after the boy when he panicked and ran right into the midst of a zombie horde. The sudden onslaught of maternal instincts left her puzzled and a bit depressed. Did it really take the end of the world to get her to understand the value in other people, especially defenseless children? Was God or whomever/whatever higher power was conducting this hell house orchestra they were in spending a lot of time and energy to teach her a lesson she really hadn’t needed to learn before?
These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation Page 2