“On that shit, First Sergeant!” Ballantine yelled back. To Hartman, he pantomimed driving. “Can you make it back to the train?”
Hartman gave him a thumbs up. Ballantine threw a knife hand down the road, indicating now would be a great time for him to move out. Hartman released the brake pedal and the Humvee slowly glided away. Ballantine caught the heavy door with one hand and hurled it closed. Guerra continued swearing behind the thick bullet resistant glass. As Hartman goosed the accelerator and got back on track, Ballantine spun on his heel and ran back to his own Humvee. Sure enough, a couple of reekers were blundering toward the idling vehicle, dead eyes locked onto it like heat-seeking missiles.
“Thought you guys were professionals, having survived New York City and all that,” the first sergeant snapped.
“No disrespect or anything old man, but do you want to be spitting out a mouthful of bloody Chiclets?” Ballantine replied.
The first sergeant looked at him with narrowed eyes. “Think you can take me, boy?”
“I dunno, you look like you might be SF. As in slow and fat, not to be confused with Special Forces.” Ballantine put a foot on the Humvee’s rocker panel. “Now you want to get in, First Sergeant? Or you want to run the rest of the way to the train?”
The first sergeant blinked. “What?”
“I’ve got a column to get back on the road, First Sergeant. You’ve had enough opportunities to take charge and get that done, but you seem to want to just stand around slack-jawed and watch. I’m basically cool with that, but we’re ready to roll. You really should mount up so we can get gone.” With that, Ballantine hauled himself into the Humvee and pulled on the door until it swung closed. “Reader, let’s move out.”
“Hooah,” Reader said as the first sergeant climbed into the back of the Humvee. Ballantine didn’t say anything further to him, and the first sergeant apparently wasn’t inclined to carry on the conversation.
Things at the train weren’t as bad as they could have been. There were several dozen reekers shambling up to it, but they were slow and easily serviced by the troops there. In the distance, more tottering monstrosities were visible as they emerged from the tree line. Ballantine estimated their numbers to be around a hundred or so. It would take a few minutes to load up the vehicles, but even then most of the deadheads wouldn’t be able to close on the train before it departed. Already, the MRAPs that had carried the switch and inspection teams outward were being returned to the flatbed rail cars.
“First Sergeant, you guys want us to help you load up the vehicles?” Ballantine asked.
“No, Sergeant. We’ll handle the vehicles. Check with the captain for your release.”
“Roger that.”
Reader stopped the Humvee behind Hartman’s rig and put it in park. He left it idling and pushed open his door and got out without being told, pulling his M4 out after him. Sporadic gunfire cracked through the air as the Guard troops on security serviced the incoming ghouls. Dozens of soldiers stood on the flatbed rail cars, rifles ready. Others actually stalked along the tops of the passenger coaches, using the higher elevation to range on the more distant targets with sniper rifles. Ballantine took all this in as he made eye contact with Guerra and motioned for him to wait. Guerra jerked his chin upward in affirmation, his eyes on Stilley who in turn looked like a despondent child that knew he was about to get his butt whipped something fierce. Ballantine found Bellara with a clutch of his troops, giving orders. He looked at Ballantine and nodded curtly.
“What’s happening, Ballantine?”
“Where do you need us, sir?” Ballantine asked.
“Just hang loose around the passenger cars, Sergeant. We’re pretty cool here. Thought shit was going to bust loose again, but Jarmusch is just being cautious after what happened at the Gap.”
Ballantine figured that was wise. “You get the chance to speak to him about the goings on in the town, sir?”
“Briefly. He’s focused on defending the train and getting us to Carson. We don’t have the time to push any supplies out to them, and it doesn’t seem likely they’ll come out and get anything we have to offer. He says forget about them.”
Ballantine was surprised. “For real, sir?”
Bellara spread his hands. “Not exactly in those words, Ballantine. He doesn’t want to leave Americans undefended out here, but there’s just not a lot we can do. If the train gets compromised, we’re all pretty severely fucked.”
“I get it, sir.”
“So you guys just hang with the coaches and keep them secure, all right? We’ll get the vehicles loaded up and be rolling pretty soon. Thanks for your help, man.”
“You got it, Captain. Feel free to source us anytime.” Ballantine was about to turn away when he remembered his words with the first sergeant. “Uh, had a bit of friction with your first shirt. Just want to pass that on to you.”
Bellara frowned. “What happened?”
“Not sure yet, but one of my guys did something stupid after picking through that battle site. Couldn’t really get a handle on what went down, but I can update you later. Anyway, had to halt the column for a few minutes to straighten things out. Your guy had an issue with that.”
“Seems reasonable, from both sides,” Bellara said. “Anybody lose any limbs over it? Or dignity, at least?”
Ballantine nodded. “No, sir. Nothing that dramatic. Anyway, I just wanted to pass that on to you.”
Bellara waved it aside. “Don’t sweat it, Ballantine. We’re all good here.”
“Yes, sir,” Ballantine said automatically. “You sure there’s nothing else you need us to do?”
Bellara shook his head and flashed his customary smile. “Negative on that, lightfighter. You’re good to go. Secure the passenger cars, and we’re done for this engagement. Thanks for your help in the town, man. Seriously.” Bellara held out his hand, and Ballantine shook it.
“Anytime, sir.”
“All right, then. Get your troops squared away. Don’t worry about the first sergeant, his ass is mine. I’ll square away any blowback. Cool?”
“Totally cool, sir.”
“Catch you on the flip side, lightfighter.”
“Hooah, sir.” Ballantine saluted, and Bellara returned the gesture. The Indian captain was still smiling, and sure enough it was infectious enough for Ballantine to return a grin of his own. He’d covered his bases with the Guard, and that was all he needed to do. With that, Ballantine turned on his heel and headed back the way he had come.
Rifle fired continued to sporadically crack from the train as the Guard troops sighted on their targets and gave them the hot steel massage. Most of the reekers approached from the south and advanced upon the train’s left side. Ballantine saw them as he walked down the long consist, peering at the bumbling corpses through the gaps between the rail cars. He noticed there was a good amount of activity around the C-RAM on one of the flatbeds. Several tall ammunition magazines had been placed around it, and a generator cackled beside the dome-topped gun. The weapon’s multi-barreled cannon moved, traversing from left to right in quick, robotic movements. He saw Bill Everson standing next to the troops milling around the gun. The old biker wore radio headphones and he stood over a younger man who was focused on a laptop that seemed to be plugged into the gun’s electronics.
Wonder what the fuck he’s doing up there, when he’s supposed to be with our dependents, Ballantine thought. He was a little annoyed to see Everson paying attention to something other than what he’d sworn to do before the lightfighters jumped out.
Ballantine hurried back to the men, who stood near the Humvees as they were driven up rails onto one of the rail cars. He zeroed in on Guerra.
“Hector, can you hear me?” he asked, raising his voice.
“Yeah, yeah, I can hear you. Though I wish I was deaf, because this mean’s I’ll have to listen to Stilley again sometime soon.” Guerra jerked his thumb toward Stilley, who stood off to one side looking glum and downcast. He kicked at the
gravel shoulder that surrounded the railway.
“Mind telling me what happened in your vehicle?” Ballantine glared at Stilley for a long moment before turning his attention to Guerra. Guerra had been staring daggers into the black soldier as well, but he oriented onto Ballantine after a moment.
“Okay. Stilley let off a flash bang grenade.”
“What?”
Guerra nodded. “Yeah. Right inside the Humvee. Believe that shit?”
Ballantine was at a loss. How could anyone be so stupid? “Tell me where he got a flash bang from?”
“The battle site we scavenged. He found it. Told me about it too, but I didn’t think to take it away from him because I actually thought a soldier in the United States Army knows better than to play with shit that explodes. I guess I was wrong on that one, huh?”
“Jesus Christ.” Ballantine rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Tell me he’s really not that stupid.”
“He is, and we let him have a SAW. Who knows what his next gig’ll be. But look at it this way, Carl—at least he didn’t flush it down the toilet like a high school kid with an M80.”
Reader turned to Stilley. “Dude, you actually let off a grenade in your own ride?” he asked, chuckling as the words came out.
Stilley looked at him with despondent eyes. “What? You say something, man?” he brayed.
“Shut up!” Ballantine thundered as he whirled toward Stilley. He couldn’t believe what he’d just been told, and it infuriated him that even Stilley could be so recklessly irresponsible. “Do you realize you could have killed the men in the vehicle with you? Killed yourself? What if you’d blown off your fucking hand?”
Stilley looked at Ballantine with clueless eyes. “What? Sorry Sergeant B, I can’t really hear you—”
Ballantine grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him roughly. “You get this, right?” he shouted. “You’re a stupid fuck! Let me give you something to think about!” He took a step back from Stilley and pulled back his right fist.
“Hey, hey Carl! Roll that shit back a bit, man!” Guerra put a hand on Ballantine’s arm and held on fast. Ballantine glanced down at him and saw the staff sergeant was just as pissed as Ballantine was himself, but Guerra wasn’t the one freaking out. And he’d had a ringside seat to the entire fracas.
Get yourself under control, Ballantine told himself.
He sighed in disgust, both with Stilley and himself. As he stepped away, Reader edged in closer and jerked his thumb toward Stilley.
“Hey Sergeant, if you’re not going to pop him ... can I?” he asked with a humorless grin. “I mean, you can probably get more air between his boots and the ground than I can, but I’ll try not to disappoint.”
“Shut up, Reader,” Ballantine snapped. “I want all of you back at the passenger coaches. Everson left our people, and I want you dogfaces where they can see you. Make sure everyone’s okay.”
“Where’s Everson?” Guerra asked.
Ballantine pointed back at the rail car carrying the C-RAM. “Over there, fucking around with that gun. I’m going to find out what the hell he’s doing. He told me he’d stay with the dependents.”
Guerra slapped him on the shoulder. “Calm down, big man. You try to do to Everson what you were going to try on Stilley, I think they’ll need a body bag for you, man. Everson’s a tough old goat. He’s probably got more years in AARP than you have in the service.”
“I’m not going to smack around an old man, Hector.” Ballantine pointed down the line at the passenger coaches. “You have your orders.”
“Hooah. Let’s go, team,” Guerra said to the rest of the lightfighters. “Make sure Stilley stays where I can see him.”
With that, the infantrymen moved out. Ballantine headed in the opposite direction and made his way back to the flat bed that carried the C-RAM. He climbed onto it and made his way toward the weapon, pushing himself past the Guardsmen milling about on the car. As he approached, he saw Everson and another civilian closing up the panels on the C-RAM while the young man with the laptop closed it up and faded back.
“Hey, Everson!” Ballantine shouted over the putting generator.
Everson looked up, squinting behind his glasses. “Ballantine. How’d it go at the town?”
Ballantine ignored the question. “Thought you were watching over our people?”
“I was, until I got tapped to do this.” Everson motioned at the C-RAM that towered over them. “We might have been able to reprogram the radar to track soft targets. We’re going to give it a test run and see how it works out.”
“Soft targets? What, you mean the fucking reekers?”
“The zombies, yeah. This thing here can pretty much atomize anything inside of two thousand feet, so we want to see how effective it is at point defense.”
Ballantine grabbed his arm. “Mr. Everson, when you tell me you’re going to do something, I need you to do it.”
“Huh?” Everson looked at Ballantine with a confused expression for a moment. “Oh, you mean your family? Kenny and Diana? Shit, Ballantine. They’re surrounded by armed Guardsmen and they have their own weapons. They’re fine. There’s a cavalryman in there with them, and trust me, he probably knows what the hell to do if things shit the bed.”
“You mean that guy with the broken leg? Doesn’t he have a compound fracture? How the fuck is he going to be able to shoot and move?”
“That’s the great thing about the zombies, Ballantine—they come to you,” Everson said. “Listen, there’s a squad of armed soldiers minding the coaches. There’s no real enemy density here to worry about, and we’re about to roll off as soon as the rest of the teams are recovered. Your family is safe, man. Trust me, I wouldn’t abandon anyone before making sure they were going to be taken care of.”
Ballantine took in a breath and released it in a long sigh. “All right. All right.”
Everson nodded and looked at the uniformed men surrounding the C-RAM. “Yeah okay, so are we ready?” he asked.
“Was going to ask you that, sir,” one of the men replied. Ballantine saw he wasn’t Army, but Navy. His uniform was quite different from the one he and his men wore.
Everson looked at the young man with the laptop. “Jacob? Anything else you need to do?”
“No, it’s all done,” the young man said. “Just need to test it out and we can make adjustments later once we’re out of here.”
Everson looked around, then nodded to the Navy personnel beside the C-RAM. “Well, no senior leadership present. I guess it’s your show now, Navy. Light ’em up.”
“You guys want to make sure your hearing protection is up to par,” the Navy petty officer said.
Ballantine tapped his radio headset. “Good to go here, squid.”
The petty officer turned to the portable fire control terminal sitting on the rail car’s flat deck. It was essentially a ruggedized laptop computer. Ballantine didn’t see any wires, so he figured he had a wireless connection to the hulking C-RAM. He tapped keys and stared at the terminal’s matte-finish display. On the near horizon, Ballantine saw a group of zombies lurching out of the tree line. They spread out into a closely-knit skirmish line. It was more a function of circumstance than planning, he knew. The reekers were just trying to get around each other.
“Okay, it’s definitely tracking targets!” the petty officer shouted. “One group of zombies, about twenty-six hundred yards out! Just emerging from the trees!” He looked around at the collection of Navy men and Army National Guardsmen around him. “Are we ready here? Stand by to fire! Three! Two! One!”
What, do I need to take cover? Ballantine screamed to himself. For all he knew, standing behind the C-RAM could be about as safe as standing behind a 105-millimeter artillery gun. Which wasn’t safe at all.
The C-RAM rotated its barrel from side to side for a moment, electric motors whirring. The weapon system’s barrel lowered a few degrees before holding steady. The gun emitted what sounded like a gigantic fart, its six barrels spinni
ng almost faster than the eye could track. Ballantine ducked in response as a cascade of huge twenty-millimeter shell cartridges blasted out of the system’s ejection port. They hit the rail car like a metal waterfall.
“Holy fuck!” Everson shouted.
“What?” Ballantine feared the worse. Ammo mag fire, catastrophic malfunction, something along that line.
“They’re fucking gone!”
“Who’s fucking gone?”
Everson turned toward Ballantine from his semi-crouched position behind the C-RAM. “The zombies, Sergeant—they’ve been vaporized. Take a look.”
Ballantine rose up from his squat. Big casings rolled around his feet. He peered over the edge of the rail car to where the zombies had emerged. There wasn’t much left. The C-RAM’s big rounds had done what Everson had said they had: atomized the enemy formation. All that was left was a pile of shredded, disassociated body matter. Some of it still twitched, but none of it would ever be able to hunt the living.
“Well, sure coulda used this back at the Gap,” he said, getting to his feet. “I guess it has a minimum range, though?”
Everson nodded. “Yeah. It’s originally designed to shoot down missiles as part of the Navy’s Close-in Weapon System. With missiles, ‘close-in’ is a little bit different than what you and me might be used to.”
“So it’s no good at danger close,” Ballantine said.
Everson shrugged. “We’re trying to modify the software for the radar system further, but you have to understand, danger close with inbound missiles actually is about two thousand yards.” He motioned toward the young man with the blond hair and laptop. “Jacob is trying to dial that in, but there just might not be enough fidelity available through the radar. He’s essentially tasking it to do something it was never designed for—killing soft targets on land.”
“Yeah, okay.” Ballantine looked back across the fields to the left of the train. More reekers picked their way closer, creeping over the gently undulating landscape and pushing through the weeds. Rifle fire continued to ring out regularly, and bodies fell. None of the zombies got within three hundred meters of the train. The National Guard troops were on their guns, and they were leaning forward in the foxhole doing what had to be done. After the fall of Fort Indiantown Gap, no one was going to allow themselves to become complacent.
These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation Page 11