“Well. Okay.” Stilley turned away from him and pulled open the door that led to the passenger coach. It slid closed behind him and latched with a loud metallic thunk.
“Hey, Ballantine. Move to your right?” Everson said.
“What?”
“What part of ‘move to your right’ did you not understand? English is your fourth language or something?”
Ballantine grunted and did as Everson instructed. The old man lurched forward then, raising his rifle. Only then did Ballantine understand the urgency behind the request. As he turned in with his own weapon, his NVGs were overloaded by a great flash as Everson fired off a single shot. Even accounting for the enclosed vestibule, the sound was substantially beefier than what a 5.56-millimeter would issue. Ballantine caught a spectral image of a body falling away from the rail car before it was enveloped in darkness the resetting NVGs couldn’t pierce. A reeker had been trying to haul itself aboard the train right behind him, and Everson had taken it out.
“Jesus, what the fuck are you carrying?” Ballantine said.
“7.62-millimeter, my dogface friend. A true man killer.” Everson stepped back and held up his rifle. It was patterned on the AR design, but it bore distinct differences. “Called a REPR, by a company known as LWRC. Civilian weapon I appropriated. Found it in the ordnance pile.”
“Ordnance pile?”
“We’re carrying a lot of weapons that the Army National Guard doesn’t really work with, Sergeant. Since I’m old enough to remember when the M-14 was the standard Corps issue, lugging this thing around is like getting a blowjob from a hot chick.” Everson hefted the weapon, holding it out for Ballantine to inspect as his NVGs reset and got back to doing what they were supposed to do. “Looks a little familiar to you, maybe ... but the bolt system is entirely different.”
“I’m, uh, impressed?”
Everson lowered the rifle with a sigh and shook his head. “What, you’d prefer I just hit the deadhead with a 40-millimeter grenade and called it a day? I don’t want to spend half the night picking zombie guts off my clothes, Ballantine. Especially when there’s not a washing machine in sight.”
“I get you. Any issues here while I was out?”
Everson shook his head and looked out the open doorway as the darkened landscape rolled past. The train was still moving dead slow. “Nothing unusual. Everyone’s on edge. Kenny’s acting out a bit, but Diana and your wife are trying to keep him occupied. Feel horrible for that little boy—I sure hope there’s some decent help for him at Carson, but that’s maybe more than we can hope for, right?”
“Supposedly the entire city of Colorado Springs is fortified,” Ballantine said. “There’s got to be people there who can look after him.”
“Your lips, God’s ear, all that.”
“It’s a city, man,” Ballantine said.
Everson nodded. “But are cities still what we remember them to be? Who’s even in charge over there?”
“Not so sure. Got to be a mix of civilians and Army, I’d guess. Why?”
“Army I have no real problem with,” Everson said after a long moment. “Politicians, though? ‘Elected’ officials? They kinda bother me.”
Ballantine smiled beneath his helmet and goggles. “You sound like you’re not exactly a trusting man, Everson.”
“Hey, I trust everyone ... as long as they’re not politicians,” Everson replied.
Guerra’s voice came over Ballantine’s earphones. “Carl, you’re back on the train?”
Ballantine turned away from Everson slightly. “Roger One Two, I’m back. What’s your pos?”
“Forward vestibule. Stilley just came forward and spread the news. Once the train picks up speed and we’re on our way, I’ll send Tharinger back to rest. Good to go on that?”
“Roger. Anything else?”
“Negative, One Seven. All good for the moment.”
“We’ll talk. Out.” Ballantine turned back to Everson, who still stood in the doorway with his heavy rifle. The old man peered out into the darkness through his night vision monocle, which was affixed to his bald head by a thick strap. “How’s the fidelity on that NVG?”
“Not bad. Single tube’s not as good for field of view, but it is nominally superior to darkness.” Everson kept his eyes out. “If you’re going to hang out with me, stand guard on the left side. No activity out there earlier, but things change a bit pretty quickly, it seems.”
“On it.” Ballantine turned and walked over to the opposite doorway. Since they still had dismounts out on the deck, all the vestibule doors were open. That way, the soldiers could mount the train in a hurry without waiting for someone to get them open. Muggy night air filtered inside the darkened compartment, and Ballantine leaned against the door jamb so he could hold his rifle in both hands. The terrain beyond was dark, empty, and still. There were no figures tottering through the fields, and the rifle fire from the flat cars had tapered off to almost nothing save for some sporadic shots from the rear. He stuck his head out and looked down the train’s length. It was gigantic, dozens of cars winding their way along the rails at less than ten miles per hour. He saw the helmeted heads of other troops down the line doing the same thing he was, keeping their eyes out and rifles ready. He faced forward and listened to the brief reports that came over the radio. The dismounts were returning now, hopping onto the last few train cars. In a few minutes, everyone would be aboard, the train would be past the switch, and it could accelerate beyond a slow crawl.
All in all, not a bad night so far.
The train thundered through the night, making relatively good time. Its lights were on and the engineers routinely heralded the consist’s arrival at crossings with blasts of the air horns. As long as the train was moving, it was essentially invulnerable to zombie assault. So Ballantine had no issue with the light and sound show aside from the fact the trumpeting horns left Kenny in a state of disarray. One of the passengers in the coach passed off some dissolvable melatonin, which Diana dropped in a cup of water. As Kenny always requested water along with “hot cheese”—his terminology for the tasty jalapeño spread that came in several MREs—getting him to drink it wasn’t much of a problem. Ballantine, along with everyone else in the passenger coach, were thrilled when the boy suddenly dropped off. But that he had faded so rapidly made him feel suddenly suspicious.
“Hey, how much of that did you give him?” Ballantine asked Diana.
“Enough to put an elephant in a coma,” she replied.
Ballantine frowned. “Seriously, now.”
“Yeah,” Diana said, her eyes narrowed in both irritation and wariness, “seriously.”
“You can’t be doping up that kid, even with melatonin,” Ballantine told her. “We don’t exactly have a full-on pediatric staff here. What if he has an underlying medical condition we don’t know about?”
“He was checked out at the Gap more than once. Trust me, other than pissing himself and a really irregular sleep schedule, he’s fine.” Diana’s voice was returning to its former notes of hard and bitter. Ballantine understood that being the primary caretaker for a special needs child was difficult, especially when the kid in question wasn’t even kin.
“No one had his medical records at the Gap,” Ballantine said, “so we really don’t know what his history is, aside from his autism. Look, for the future? Please don’t overmedicate him. We don’t need any additional trouble, Diana. You get that, right?”
Diana straightened in her seat, keeping her movements slow and measured to avoid waking up the sleeping boy who lolled against her. She swept her index finger around the darkened passenger coach. “Ask them how they feel about Kenny being ‘overmedicated’ with melatonin,” she hissed. “I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts no one really gives a fuck. So long as they’re not being inconvenienced, they’re fine with it.”
Ballantine considered that for a long moment, then leaned in close to her. “Hey. I give a fuck. So please do as I ask, because next time? It’s not going t
o be presented as a request.”
Diana smirked. “What’re you going to do, Ballantine? Make me babysit him for the rest of my life?”
“Haven’t decided yet but whatever it might be, it’ll be a lot less pleasant than that.” Ballantine straightened up. “You might want to get some rest yourself while you can.”
Before Diana could respond, Ballantine turned away from her and walked over to where his family was seated. They were all out, and Stilley had joined them over an hour ago to start his rest cycle. His head was back and his mouth was wide open, but he didn’t snore. His SAW stood against the coach’s sidewall, barrel pointed downward. Ballantine visually inspected the weapon; the safety was engaged. Curtis leaned against Stilley, eyes closed. Even in the grips of a deep slumber, Stilley had wrapped an arm around the boy’s narrow shoulders. Ballantine considered that for a long moment. More than likely it was just a reflex action, but to a father, it looked as if Stilley was attempting to provide Curtis some measure of comfort and protection even during sleep. Ballantine decided there was probably more to Stilley than he and the rest of the troops gave him credit for.
Josh was snuggled against Kay. Both were in a deep sleep, swaying slightly as the train hurled itself down the tracks. Ballantine put his hands on the seat backs and surveyed the entire car. Almost everyone was out. The young man with the man bun’s face was still illuminated by the blue light of his laptop, and he had spread out across the seat, consuming all the space left by Everson’s absence. Ballantine had heard the young man was the one responsible for recalibrating the C-RAM. Apparently, he still had more work to do and was attacking it with gusto. His face was drawn and tight, but he was in his own world, one where lack of sleep didn’t much matter.
Guess us guys with weapons aren’t the only ones leaning forward in this.
Ballantine made his way onward to where the rest of the guys were stationed in the forward vestibule. As he passed the club seats there, he saw a soldier with a severely trussed leg. The man was still awake, and his eyes were narrowed despite the semi-darkness of the car. Ballantine paused for a moment.
“Hey guy, you all right?” he asked, voice low. “You’re the cav guy I about, huh?”
“I guess I am.” The man’s voice was tight. “Name’s Martin.”
“Carl Ballantine. Got a first name, Martin?”
“Trevor,” the soldier replied, and his voice was a touch strained.
Ballantine knew a man in pain when he saw it. “Your leg bothering you, Trevor?”
“A bit, yeah.”
“Anything I can get for you? Pain meds, anything like that?”
“I have oxycontin and Tylenol with codeine,” Martin said. “Trying hard not to take them, though. Especially the oxy—shit knocks me out. I’m no good to anyone if I’m unconscious.”
“And you’re no good to anyone if you’re in agony either,” Ballantine replied.
Martin shrugged. “At least I’ll be alive. It just hurts a bit because I had to get to the latrine. Tight space and shit, getting up and getting back.”
“You need to take a whiz, let us know. We’ll help with that.”
Martin smiled thinly. “I don’t think I want a guy like you shaking off my pecker, Sergeant.”
“Well. Not what I’d meant, but yeah. I’m probably not the guy for that.” Ballantine returned the cavalryman’s smile. “But just the same, you need to take your meds. You can’t be all strung out from the pain when the shit finally blows sideways. You’ve gotta take care of yourself, Martin. Lean on us if you need to, it’s not a problem.”
“Shit’s definitely gonna blow sideways,” Martin muttered. “I was in Philly when we lost control. Things went from bad to worse exponentially. Even if we were in perfect positions, we would’ve still been forced out.”
“Same for us. We thought the bridges would hold them back in Manhattan, channelize their advances right into our guns. Didn’t work—damn reekers were able to cross the river and attack from behind.” Ballantine shook his head. “For things that are as stupid as a doornail, they sure outsmart everyone all the time.”
“Ballantine, do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“When it comes time to leave this train in a hurry, don’t forget me,” Martin said. He pointed at his leg. “Like they said in all the old westerns, ‘he won’t get far on foot.’”
Ballantine snorted then leaned in, mindful of the three other people sleeping in the seating arrangement with Martin. “That’s why I need you on your meds,” he whispered. “Because I’ll need you on your weapon when that time comes.”
“It will,” Martin whispered back.
“I know.”
Martin was silent for a moment, then nodded to the rest of the passenger coach. “What about them?”
“Save all we can.”
“Got a plan?”
“Can you drive an MRAP with that leg?”
“Fuck, yes. That’s why God gave me two of them. But if I’m fucked up on painkillers...”
“I don’t think we’ll need to worry about sobriety check points. So long as you can drive in a general straight line in an indicated direction, we’ll be good to go. Only tapping you as a potential driver because the rest of the guys might be maneuvering steel on target.”
“I get you,” Martin said.
Ballantine nodded again. “Good. So take your meds, man. Stay off that leg. You need to go, you call us. Hooah?”
“Hooah.”
“Dope up, troop. Then get some rest.”
With that order of business put to rest, Ballantine continued forward. The troops were all there, save for Stilley. They sat on the floor in the middle of a card game. Ballantine looked down. “Who’s winning?”
“Me, of course,” Guerra said, “though Reader seems to have an occasional lucky streak.”
“Is he winning now?”
Reader looked up. “No. Sergeant G cheats.”
“Skill is not cheating, puss bag,” Guerra said.
“Cool.” Ballantine pointed at Tharinger and Reader. “You two like to grab each other’s balls, so I won’t split you up. Head for the rear vestibule and hang out with Mr. Everson. He’s standing guard duty back there solo, so I want you guys to relieve him. We can’t have a man in his seventies on his feet all night, even if he is an old Marine.”
“Got that,” Reader said. “You want to play my hand?”
“No. I think that’ll do it for the cards right now.” Ballantine looked at Guerra. “All right with that?”
Guerra shrugged. “Just passing the time. It’s not like it’s a high stakes came, just playing for pound cake we barely have.” He began packing up the cards.
“Anything I need to know before you leave?” Ballantine looked from Reader and Tharinger to Hartman and Guerra.
Guerra shook his head. “Been all quiet. Sorry, I overlooked the second vestibule.”
“It’s no problem. Nothing’s going to get past Everson without us knowing it—you seen that rifle he’s got?”
Guerra made a dismissive noise. “Shit. I still got that M110 lying in the overhead rack above your family’s seats. I can drill targets a thousand yards out with that shit.”
Ballantine rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Okay hero. Guys, get out of here. Be quiet, lots of people sleeping in the car.”
“What, you mean Stilley doesn’t talk in his sleep?” Reader asked.
“He’d better not, one of my kids is using him as a pillow.”
Reader made a face. “Jesus, sorry to hear that. He’s gonna smell like Stilley’s armpit.”
Ballantine snorted. “Go on, guys.”
The two lightfighters stepped out of the vestibule. Ballantine turned to Guerra and Hartman. “Okay, so I guess things are quiet.”
“Hell no, Carl. We always play cards in the middle of a firefight. Where the hell you been?” Guerra asked.
“Don’t be a smartass.”
“Better than being a dumbass, right?” Guerra f
inished packing up his cards and dumped them into a pocket as he pushed himself to his feet. “Something up?”
“Wanted to talk to both of you about what we’re going to do if the train shits the bed.”
Hartman also rose to his feet with a sigh. “And you’re planning for us to survive that?”
“I’ve designated you as the first casualty. Cool by you?”
Hartman shot him a thumbs up. “At least I’ll be out of this fight. There’s something to look forward to.”
Ballantine shook his head. “Quitter.”
“And damned proud of it, Sergeant B.”
Guerra skipped the levity. “What do you have in mind?”
“Let’s presume that the entire train doesn’t derail or become instantly destroyed, but it’s not going anywhere. We need to come up with a plan. I brought this up to Jarmusch earlier, but didn’t get a shit ton of confidence that he’s come up with anything really usable just yet. Not a character assessment, just that he and his staff are moving at a million miles per hour on a thousand other things. Maybe they have something figured out, and they just haven’t shared anything but the broad strokes with me. But I think it’s pretty essential we at least have a plan put together for us and our dependents.”
“We need to put some faces in the spaces,” Guerra said. “Kay, the kids, Diana, and Kenny. Who else? I’m presuming you do plan to keep Diana with us, right?”
“Wherever she goes, Kenny goes,” Ballantine said. “As far as I’m concerned, they’re immediate family. I like Everson, and there’s that cav guy too.”
“Martin. Yeah, good man. Bit banged up though, not going to be much good in a fight,” Guerra said.
“I just talked to him. He says he can still drive, and that’s something we’re going to need. If we get vehicles, we put him behind the wheel and hope he’s not so doped up not to be able to follow orders until we can switch him out.”
“What vehicles are we talking about?” Hartman asked.
“I like MRAPs. Barring those, five-tons. I’d also like a buffalo, because we’ll need fuel.”
Guerra grunted. “Well sure, presuming those things survive whatever happens and presuming the Guard is going to let us take their shit, I’m all over that. But we really need to figure out how we’re going to get more people in with us. Way I see it, the more people we have, the less the Guard is going to resist.”
These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation Page 21