Just the same, something cold sidled up to his heart when he heard pealing cries in the vicinity. Screamers. Children that had been turned into zombies, shrieking as the moved toward the train. Ballantine couldn’t see them, and he didn’t want to. He wanted to get gone. He saw the vehicles were pretty much loaded up and were being chained down on their flat bed rail cars. The train would begin moving again soon. Everson noticed this as well, and he shouted for the Navy team to secure the C-RAM.
“Hey Everson, can that thing fire on the move?” Ballantine asked.
Everson nodded. “It sure can. But we probably don’t want to use it at all unless things are really going to go tits up. This was just a test case situation.” He pointed at the gun’s ammunition magazines. “Once those are gone, there’s no replacing them. Maybe Fort Carson has the ability to delink and load up twenty mil, but us on this train? Not a chance. We need to conserve those resources.”
“Got it. All right, I’m going to head back to the troops. You should get back to the passenger car yourself.” Ballantine nodded toward the C-RAM. “I guess you’re more important than I’d thought, Marine.”
The old man waved the comment aside. “I’m just a tool pusher. The Navy and young Jacob here are the real stars of the show.”
“Well. Get your mangy butt back to the passenger car. And sorry about coming up here ready to chew your ass off.”
Everson waved that aside as well. “You were right to. Anyway, I’ll be right there.” With that, he turned to the Navy men while they began packing up their firing terminal.
Ballantine walked to the edge of the rail car and lowered himself down to the ground. Course gravel crunched beneath his boots. He walked down the consist, heading for the passenger coaches and his family. And his men.
###
As the convoy came up on the outskirts of Arendtsville, Hastings ordered Jones to slow the MRAP. They hadn’t stopped moving since clearing Biglerville and Hastings wanted to keep things moving, but they needed to be careful. This trip was proving to be full of surprises where they least expected them.
“Okay, Jones, this is a straight shot until the road ends. When it does, hook a left and then an immediate right. We’re looking for the road that’ll take us to US 30.”
“Left at the end of the road, then the first right. Got that, sir.”
Hastings felt a presence behind his left shoulder, and he turned to find Slater had moved forward again. “Hell, Slater. You keep coming up here to whisper sweet nothings in my ear, the rest of the troops will start to talk.”
“Hey, nothing to worry about, guys,” Jones said cheerfully. “They repealed don’t ask, don’t tell.” When both Hastings and Slater only glared at him, he closed his mouth and went back to driving.
Slater shook his head with a sigh and turned to Hastings. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to take any chances here. Looking at the map, it’s a straight shot through the town, but there are no good places to bail out to the north or the south if things go sideways. I say we use speed as security and blow through this pop stand faster than a monkey gets fucked, sir.”
Hastings nodded. “All right, agreed. Just make sure everyone keeps a decent spread between vehicles. I don’t want to get jammed up if we do have to detour or stop.”
“Tracking, sir. Once we’re on the road to US 30, we should find a place to stop the convoy. We should get spun up on what happened back in Biglerville and talk to the PUC. Seems like that’s a potentially good source of information. You good with that?”
“Sounds good. Once we’re through here and on the highway, I’ll pick a place and we can have the meet and greet.”
“Yes, sir.”
The road into Arendtsville was in fact a straight, narrow shot through the town. A few more cars were left abandoned in the road but the convoy easily drove around them. The place was in a bit more disarray than the previous towns. The obvious signs of panic and death were present, as witnessed by the remains of partially eaten corpses that littered the ground. Small groups of reekers staggered along streets looking for victims, and Jones sucked in his breath when a runner appeared out of nowhere and charged at the MRAP head-on. The vehicle didn’t even bounce when it rolled right over the grotesquerie.
“Jesus, Jones. Don’t tell me you just popped your cherry on that?” one of the soldiers in back said, his tone full of snark.
“Nah, your mother arranged for me to do your sister. She fucked like a corpse, though.”
“Yeah, my dad said the same thing.”
The convoy passed the Zion United Church of Christ, a majestic-looking building with a spire. The sign out front read, We’re drowning in the light of God. Join us! Hastings found that grimly humorous, given the current circumstances that had befallen the town.
The convoy approached the T intersection Hastings had warned Jones about. There were a multitude of vehicles parked pell-mell in the street, which forced the column to slow. The answer why became apparent a moment later. A Getty gas station was on the left corner. It was a portrait of despair. Cars filled its parking lot, probably by stranded motorists who had come looking for fuel and other sustenance. Body parts were strewn all over, and trash drifted along on the breeze. Even inside the MRAP, Hastings and the soldiers could smell the stench of old rot. All the windows leading to the Getty Mart had been shattered, and fragmented glass lay across the blood-spattered concrete, glittering like thousands of jewels in the sunlight. Carrion birds picked through the remains of the slaughtered. Some of them took flight when the convoy picked its way forward, but many did not. The black vultures, crows, and turkey buzzards glared at the armored vehicles with stern, unblinking eyes as if they were ready to fight to the death to protect their bounty.
Hastings pointed out the windshield. “Left here, then that right. Follow the sign to US 30.”
“I see it,” said Jones, even though in reality he was gawking at the gas station madness.
“Stay with us, please,” Hastings said.
Jones nodded and tore his eyes away from the gruesome vista and made the left. He quickly turned right onto the next street—Cashtown Road, the sign said—and headed out of the town towards US 30. Hastings turned in his seat and looked back through the passenger door window. The rest of the convoy wound after them, weaving around the dead traffic surrounding the gas station. Sporadic reports came over the net as several reekers had appeared. The dead found they were no match for armored vehicles that weighed in excess of twelve tons, but one or two of the deadheads had managed to grab onto one vehicle. The soldiers debated the best way to clean them off without even tapping the brakes. There was no way a zombie could claw through an MRAP’s armor; so as long as the column kept moving, they were no tangible threat.
The rest of the convoy followed behind him without incident, although a few vehicles reported that the reekers had moved into the main street and several vehicles had run over them as they sped through the town. Once they were all clear of the town, stopping and checking those vehicles for damage would be a good idea along with finding out what happened in Biglervile.
The road out of town was a typical two-lane back road with huge swaths of open agricultural fields on each side and the occasional house where the owners likely lived. Hastings decided to stop on a patch of road surrounded by flat fields full of unkempt corn that was in the process of dying off. Despite this, the visibility was good in all directions. The column wouldn’t have any difficulty defending itself.
“Jones, slow it down and bring it to a stop. Leave room for the security vehicles to get around you so they can move into position.” He called out to the back: “Slater, make sure each vehicle does a visual on the one in front of it before anyone dismounts—for all we know, reekers could be holding onto the undercarriages.”
“On that, sir.”
The convoy came to a slow stop and the vehicles adopted a staggered formation so that they could provide a 360-degree perimeter of fire if attacked. Hastings�
�s vehicle and the command group rigs all remained inside the perimeter along with Eagle One’s support units. The president’s MRAP would remain buttoned up for the moment, and if Hastings had his way, President Cornell would not see daylight except from behind a pane of glass until they reached Raven Rock.
“Time to sort some things out, Sergeant Slater,” he said. “Have a security team dismount and start cleaning off any stragglers before anyone else breaks seals.”
“Underway, Captain.”
There was only one reeker that had managed to hang on to its vehicle, and it was in pretty bad shape after having been dragged down the highway for several miles. It was dealt with quickly. The vehicles that ran over reekers, including Hastings’s, hadn’t suffered anything more consequential than slight cosmetic damage—and since MRAPs had never been designed for sleek, award-winning presence, that was not a problem for anyone. Once the reports were in, Slater summoned Romeo One Five to drive up alongside Hastings’s MRAP and produce the PUC. A moment later, the Special Forces NCO was again back up front with Hastings.
“The captain and I are going to go have a chat out behind the vehicle with our new guest,” he told Jones. “Keep the engine running, just like always, and let us know if anything comes over the radio. We’ll be off comms.”
“Roger that, Sergeant.” Jones reached over to the front radio and grasped the handset.
Slater nodded to Hastings. “Okay, sir. Let’s go see what’s what.”
Hastings cracked open the MRAP’s passenger door. “Yeah, let’s do that.”
The commander of Romeo One Five was a thin staff sergeant named Ron Drecker. He was on the short side with pale eyes, a jutting nose, and a chin dotted with stubble. Hastings didn’t give a shit about the last part. Grooming wasn’t big on his list right now. Drecker was accompanied by a much larger soldier who held a SAW in his hands. He was almost big enough to make the weapon look like a broomstick. The big man sweated heavily under his battle rattle, and his dark face was literally shining from perspiration. His nametape read TARRANT.
Drecker saluted Hastings. “Captain.”
Hastings returned the gesture. “Sergeant Drecker. You know Sergeant Slater?”
Drecker looked at Slater and nodded. “Oh, yeah.”
Hastings looked at the big soldier standing off Drecker’s right shoulder. “Soldier, you getting enough water? You’re sweating up a storm there.”
“Yes, sir. I’m fine,” the soldier replied.
“Don’t worry about Tarrant, he just can’t handle humidity. Loves up winter weather, though.”
“That so?” Hastings said. “Where from, Tarrant?”
“Chicago area, sir.”
“Well. That explains why you like the cold.” Hastings looked back at Drecker. “So what’s the short version of what happened back there in Biglerville? And who is the PUC?”
“Sir, as we came around the corner we saw the group of combatants moving from the supply store to the building to their front. It looked like they were making a dash for the apartments on the second story. When they saw us, several of them opened fire on the vehicles, so we returned fire. It was over pretty quick, they were in the open and right in front of us. They really didn’t stand a chance.”
“They did open fire first, right?” Slater asked.
Drecker looked offended, and his pale eyes practically bugged out of his head. “Hell yes, that’s what I said. Right?”
“Sure.”
Drecker looked at Hastings. “Sir, we would not open fire on civilians without taking heat first. Reekers yes, and all day long. But living people? No way.”
“I track that, Sergeant. Slater was just asking a question,” Hastings said.
“And the PUC?” Slater asked. “What about him? Or is it a her?”
“It’s a him. He came out of the supply store after the firing had stopped with his hands up and surrendered. He didn’t have much to say, but we’ve had him bagged up tight since we rolled him up.”
Hastings looked around the area. They were pretty well surrounded by idling MRAPs, so there wasn’t much to see. “Well, bring him out. Let’s find out what this was all about.”
Drecker banged on the back of his MRAP then stepped aside. The ramp lowered to the ground, and Drecker motioned someone forward from inside the vehicle. A man with his hands behind his back and a sandbag over his head was guided by the arm down the stairs by another soldier. The soldier then led the man over to the others. Slater pulled the sandbag off of the man’s head. A scruffy and disheveled man with several days of beard on his face peered back at them, blinking against the light of the day. Hastings couldn’t tell how old he was exactly, but figured it was somewhere between twenty-five and ninety-seven.
“My name is Captain Hastings, and this is Master Sergeant Slater. As you might be able to tell, we’re United States Army. Who are you and why did you attack our convoy?”
The man squinted at Hastings for a moment, then looked around at the vehicles that surrounded him. To no doubt, he could also catch glimpses of the wide-open spaces beyond the column. Hastings knew the man was sizing up the situation and figuring out his options.
“The Army, huh? You expect me to believe you’re really Army and not just a group of leftovers pretending to still be the Army?” His voice was a little dry and reedy. Whether it was from lack of water or a lifetime of smoking anything he could get his hands on, Hastings couldn’t tell.
Slater jumped in immediately. “We’re asking the questions here, and the captain wants to know what your name is. This can go one of two ways, and the choice is yours. But from where I stand? I suggest you answer the question, friend.”
The man eyed Slater hard for a long moment. Slater snorted and stepped toward him.
“You eye-fuck me like that again, friend, and I’ll assume you’ve chosen door number two. You understand me?”
“My name is John Mosby,” the man said.
The name meant nothing to Hastings, but he saw Slater’s jaw muscles clench up several times. That was interesting. “Okay, so your name is John Mosby. John, what were you doing back there in Biglerville and why did you attack us?
“We were just scrounging for some food and supplies. Trying to stay alive a bit longer. I don’t know why the others started shooting at you. They must have thought you were going to try and shoot us and take our stuff. A lot of that kind of thing been going on around here lately.” Even though he was talking, he was still a touch too defiant for Hastings’s taste.
“You live in Biglerville?” he asked.
Mosby shook his head slightly, and his shaggy hair waved back and forth. “No. We were just passing through. Trying to stay away from the dead and anyone else still living.”
Slater moved closer to Mosby and grabbed his chin faster than a rattlesnake could strike. He forced the man to look at him.
“Hey, man, what the fuck—”
“John Mosby, huh?” Slater snapped. “The John Mosby who was in the news?”
A microsecond look of surprise flashed across Mosby’s face, and he looked down suddenly. “No, I’m not him. But it’s not the first time I’ve been asked that.”
“John, you must take me for a fool. Unlike a lot of people these days, I know my history and I know who John Mosby was.”
Mosby didn’t look up. Whether it was an act or not, he was suddenly meek and compliant. “Okay.”
Slater stared at Mosby for a moment before he released him. Hastings exchanged glances with the other soldiers, looking for some clue as to what was happening. Their stares were blank, and a moment later all gazes turned to Slater.
Slater ignored them. “Have a word with you over here, sir?” he said to Hastings.
“Sure.” Hastings pointed at Mosby. “Eyes on,” he said to Drecker and his men.
“He’s going nowhere,” Drecker assured him.
Hastings followed Slater to the other side of their MRAP, but maintained visual on Mosby and the soldiers standing guard ov
er him.
“You following what’s unfolding here, sir?”
Hastings shook his head. “Not really. What’s up? You know this guy?”
“John Mosby was a Confederate soldier during the Civil War, also known as the Grey Ghost. He led a group known as Mosby’s Rangers, who were known for their quick, guerrilla-style attacks against the Union. After the war he went on to become friends with General Grant and even entered into Virginia politics. It’s all in the history books.”
“So you’re telling me this guy fought in the Civil War?”
Slater ignored the question. “Fast forward to today. There’s a group called The Movement. Have you ever heard of them or the name John Mosby before all of this shit kicked off?”
Hastings searched his memory. “No … can’t say that I’m familiar with any of it. Why is any of this important to us right now?”
“If this is the John Mosby that’s been in the news, then we have the leader of The Movement and a terrorist leader in our custody right now.”
Hastings held up his hands. “Whoa, whoa, what do you mean terrorist leader? What’s this Movement thing about?”
“Sir, I can’t believe you aren’t tracking on this. A person known as John Mosby, our friend standing over there, started The Movement. The Movement is, was, an underground organization of people who are believed to have carried out some very heinous shit against some very powerful people in the technology and commercial world here in the US and abroad. The Movement targeted the presidents, CEOs, and senior executives of some major companies that they felt were taking advantage of the general population through manipulation and collection of personal data and information. Companies like Waggle, Giant and FacePlaces to name just a few. A lot of the people from those companies started waking up dead overnight, and no one knew who or how they did it at first. One of them would turn up dead in the news and then The Movement would claim responsibility. No one knew who or what The Movement was until one of the statements sent to the news agencies was signed by a John Mosby. These guys weren’t holding rallies in the streets or protesting, they were just lying in the shadows and quietly smoking dudes and no one had a clue as to how.”
These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation Page 12