“Not going to be able to hold them back for very long,” Robinson shouted over the weapon fire.
“We never can,” Ballantine replied. “We probably never will.” He wondered then if heading to Colorado Springs was actually as brilliant as it had sounded. Thousands of soldiers and motivated civilians hadn’t been able to hold the Gap even with weeks of preparation. How could an entire city stand up to the hordes?
The C-RAM fell silent suddenly, and in the acoustic void Ballantine heard the cries of frightened civilians and the shouts of soldiers. Rifles cracked and heavier weapons roared. One of the vehicles down the line was equipped with an Mk 19 grenade launcher, and it delivered forty-millimeter grenades into the reeker advance. Bodies spiraled through the air, and for a moment their advance was broken up in that one engagement area. But more deadheads shuffled forward, filling in the gap even as they stumbled across the writhing remnants of their fallen fellows. The dead didn’t care about what had just happened. They were already lifeless, so why bother?
“We’re not going to be able to save all these people,” Ballantine said as he resumed firing.
“What?” Robinson asked.
“I said, we’re not going to be able to save all these people!”
“No shit? Such a letdown, huh?” Robinson swapped out magazines. “Your people safe?”
“They’re in the lead MRAP,” Ballantine said. “Can’t say that passes muster as being safe.”
“Better than being out here.” Robinson hit the bolt release on her rifle and was back in action, killing people who were already dead.
Bellara’s voice came over the radio. “Crusader, this is Lance.”
“Lance, send it,” Robinson replied.
“Crusader, we’re starting to lose the line at the head of the train. Have a formation of reekers approaching from the rear and not enough guns to hold them back. Let’s get as many people mounted up on the trucks as possible and prepare to move out. Once the dead close to fifty meters, I want wheels turning. Over.”
“Roger all, Lance.” She resumed firing. “Ballantine, you good to drive one of the tankers or you want me to find someone else?”
“You’re in charge, ma’am. Might make more sense if I were on a five-ton with my weapon though.”
“Done. Get your troops organized, we have enough folks who can drive vehicles. I’ve got troops loading up supplies in all the trucks, so we’ll have enough beans and bullets to go around for a while. I’ll detail some of them to drive while we fight.”
“Roger that.”
“Fall back now and fight from the trucks, Sergeant.”
“Hooah.” Ballantine struck out for the first five-ton truck in the column. A file of soldiers was already loading it with as many consumables as possible in the amount of time they had. The vehicle was equipped with a single M249, and a female National Guardsman was already on the weapon, firing hate into the approaching zombies as they slogged through the night.
“Crusader One Two, is your vehicle secure?” he radioed as he climbed up onto the truck’s bed and worked his way forward to the gunner.
“Crusader One Seven, we’re all good to go here. We have those gun trucks lining up in front of us—will that be the lead element? Over.”
Ballantine made it to the front of the five-ton’s bed and looked over the cab. The Humvees with the GAU-19s were slotting themselves in front of Guerra’s MRAP.
“Crusader, this is Lance. Hatchet has the lead,” Bellara said. “I’m coordinating with them now, but get ready to move out regardless. Over.”
“Lance, Crusader. Roger,” Ballantine replied. “Break. Crusader One Two, you have your orders on that front. Over.”
“One Two, roger.”
Behind him, more soldiers mounted the truck. Ballantine instructed them to start organizing the materials that continued to be loaded aboard, then set about lugging ammo boxes for the M249 forward so the gunner could reload. He opened one and pulled out the belt and ensured the gunner saw it. When she nodded that she had the resupply located, Ballantine moved to the right side of the truck bed and shouldered his rifle. Reekers were less than a hundred yards out now, coming in thick, shambling clumps. Muted thunder filled the air as one of the burning locomotives’ fuel tanks fully ignited, transforming the front of the train from smoldering wreckage to full-on inferno. A good number of the reekers plodding toward the trucks swung around, focusing on the sudden blaze. Their faces were slack and their mouths opened in a collective moan, as if the dead enjoyed the sudden display of pyrotechnics. But the weapons fire turned them back a moment later, and Ballantine released a groan. He capped off several shots and began thinning out the advance closest to him. Since all the MRAPs were sealed up, the people inside would be more or less safe. Now it was the five-tons which were vulnerable. Even though the trucks were the size of a small house, there were still plenty of handholds for the reekers to use to climb into their open beds and start gorging themselves.
More troops climbed aboard the truck and joined him in gunning for the dead. Ballantine looked over his shoulder as he swapped out magazines. The truck was pretty much loaded up now, and no one was throwing more food, water, or ammunition aboard. Beyond, a mixture of soldiers and civilians still milled about, looking for transportation. He shouted for them to mount up immediately; the zombies continued to close, even though hundreds of them had been returned to death’s everlasting embrace.
And then, the Humvees began to pull away from the train.
“Lance, Crusader One Seven! Column is advancing, but we still have people on the ground!”
“Crusader, this is Lance. Roger. I know, but it’s time to roll.” Bellara’s voice was barely audible over the storm of rifle fire. “We can only save who we can save.”
Ahead, the MRAPs began to pull off, following the gun trucks as they hosed everything in their path. Ballantine kept an eye on the lead unit, the one that contained his family. It moved out as he’d expected. Apparently, Martin was still functional despite his injury and the dulling effects of the pain meds. Guerra would keep him straight.
“Roger that,” he said softly as the truck jerked forward. Everyone holding the line on the side of the bed swayed and grabbed onto whatever they could to keep their feet under them. Several fell, thumping across the boxes of supplies or each other. Ballantine cursed as he struggled to stay upright. The truck lumbered forward as the reekers kept pressing in, running without lights. Just the same, runners finally pushed through the horde and took advantage of the disruption in rifle fire. One of them hurled itself right at the truck and was crushed beneath its tires. Another actually leaped and grabbed onto the side of the bed and attempted to haul itself over the cargo compartment’s tall side. It was met with no fewer than six headshots as the Guardsmen in the bed oriented on it immediately. The nearly headless corpse flopped to the ground and lay still.
“Keep holding them back!” Ballantine shouted to the soldiers in the truck. “Gunner, you keep up the suppressive fire—if you can’t hit ’em in the heads, shoot them in the legs! Someone else get on loading all these magazines!” Discarded rifle magazines clattered around the boxes thrown into the truck. The Guardsmen were burning through their load-outs rapidly, and replenishing the exhausted magazines would take time. It would be better to have someone on that particular mission sooner rather than later.
None of the Guard soldiers really jumped on that last order. Ballantine was about to pull the man next to him off the line when he heard Robinson shouting over the gunfire and the roar of the M925’s diesel engine as it accelerated the heavy vehicle through the night.
“You heard the man! I want two of you on that mission, right now!” she snapped. Ballantine returned to the more immediate task at hand, keeping the reekers off the truck. As the column picked up speed and moved away from the train, he heard screams and shouts from behind them. The radios came alive with troops requesting support as they suddenly realized they were being left behind. And the zombi
es were reorienting on the train again. Even they were smart enough to realize they’d never be able to catch up to the vehicles, not when they were finally underway. Minute by minute, the soldiers in the truck around him ceased firing as the target selection grew more thin. To be sure, zombies closest to the truck made for it, but they had no chance. Those which managed to get in front of it were simply run over, crushed by its heavy bumper and then the tall wheels. The very few who managed to get a handhold didn’t last for very long. They either lost their grip or were shot off by the Guardsmen.
From the train, the rifle fire continued. Ballantine looked behind the truck as the flaming wreckage of the locomotives fell farther and farther behind. His NVGs dutifully augmented the muzzle flashes as the soldiers and civilians they’d left behind continued to slug it out. Through the thick smoke, a Humvee emerged. It was covered with zombies, and the gunner in the turret was literally torn apart where he stood. The vehicle suddenly veered to the right as one of the animated corpses pushed inside the passenger compartment, doubtless attacking the soldiers inside. The Humvee slowed, tracking from side to side as the troops tried to fight them off at close quarters.
Ballantine had no doubt how they would fare, because when the Humvee finally crashed to a stop out in the field, it was literally surrounded by the dead.
“Holy fuck,” someone said. “Did we really just run out on all those people?”
“You can go back if you want,” Ballantine said. “No one’s stopping you.”
“Shit doesn’t bother you, Sergeant?” another voice asked.
Ballantine kept his eyes out. To the north, the remains of Chicago still smoldered. “Whether it bothers me or not, it’s what happened. You guys need to focus on the shit in front of you, not what’s in the rearview mirror.”
“Knock off the chatter!” Robinson snapped. “Get this vehicle squared away, and get to reloading magazines! I want four of you on your rifles at all times. And make sure that 249 stays ready to go!”
“But LT, we just bugged out on people we were supposed to protect,” a Guardsman said. “I mean, bad enough we bailed on our own, but we left defenseless citizens back there!”
“You think I didn’t notice that, Howard? Like Sergeant Ballantine said, go ahead. Jump off. Give them your best John Wayne impression as you try and save them from thousands of dead.”
“That’s fucking cold, Lieutenant,” the soldier snapped back.
“Become one of the dead,” Robinson replied. “Then you’ll know what cold is all about.”
The sun had risen hours ago, but sullen clouds held its rays at bay during the majority of the morning hours. The convoy wended its way through the state of Illinois, deviating around major population centers wherever possible even though it added hours to the journey. The MRAP actually had a GPS unit, so Guerra was able to preview their general course. By road, Colorado Springs was over a thousand miles away. If the column had been able to stick to highways and interstates, it might arrive in less than twenty hours. But the odds were that every major roadway was going to be either choked with traffic, full of the dead, or both. Even though it appeared the plan was to parallel Interstate 80 for as long as possible, the reality of an overland sojourn wasn’t lost upon Guerra. He figured they were actually in for a couple of days of road time, if they were severely lucky and managed to avoid any enemy contact.
Of both the dead and living kind, he thought. He well recalled how he and the rest of the lightfighters had come across Kenny and Diana, in the clutches of lawless brigands. And the weird sect of Jehovah Witnesses that had tried to block their path outside the Gap when they were going for the hump yard. The two groups had nothing in common other than their particular brand of crazy was likely proliferating everywhere now. By his estimation, the column had its work cut out for it. While they were well-armed and more or less protected by armor, fighting was out of the question. All it would take was one decisive engagement, and they’d all be shit out of luck.
He passed his time massaging his twisted ankle and listening to the radio, all while trying to drown out Kenny’s hooting and hollering. The kid had calmed down a bit after hitting the road, but his wild vocalizations had everyone in the MRAP on edge. Even Martin commented on it. Despite his pain medications, the cavalryman was a bit stressed by the young autistic boy’s constant commotion. The only person on the vehicle who wasn’t as bothered was Everson. The old man stood in the gunnery ring, his hands on the .50-caliber’s handles as he kept an eye out through the opening in the MRAP’s back. He’d been on his feet for hours, swaying back and forth as the MRAP trundled down country roads, across fields, and even sprinted down a stretch of highway or two. But he rarely fired. While the dead were all about, the countryside was too big for them to be everywhere. Chances were good they were still chewing their way through the urban areas. Which made sense, because that’s where the food was.
“How you holding up, Martin?” Guerra asked.
“Still here. Kinda wish that little guy would stop with all the carrying on, though.”
“Hey. He’s autistic. He can’t help it.”
“I know. I get it. Not trying to be an asshole, but it’s just tough to tolerate at the moment.”
“We all probably agree with you on that.” Guerra glanced over at the soldier sitting behind the wheel. From across the cab, he saw that Martin was sweating a bit. He bore a strained expression that had very little to do with Kenny’s noise or the fact he was cooped up in a lumbering armored vehicle.
“Dude, how’s the leg?” he asked.
Martin kept his eyes on the Humvee forty meters ahead of the MRAP. “Still broken.”
“Pain creeping up on you?”
“It’s about to get me,” Martin replied.
“When was the last time you had some meds?”
“A couple of hours before we lost the train. Getting tossed around the passenger compartment didn’t help things.”
“Funny, I thought you told Ballantine you were so high you were gonna take a flight with Timothy Leary.”
“Who?”
“Ballantine. Our senior NCO?”
“I know who he is, asshole.”
“Timothy Leary was an acid freak in the sixties and seventies. Don’t you know your hippy history?”
“Guerra, I went to a vocational school and washed trailers before joining the Army.”
“No shit? You look like one of those liberal snowflakes to me, guy. You know, some bro who’d go to, ah, Yale or something.”
“If I went to Yale, would I be an E-5?” Martin snorted. “Hell, would I even be in the Army?”
“I make that you’d see the error of your ways, drop out, and become a pimp. Make your fortune renting girls out on Craigslist or something before they shut that shit down,” Guerra said.
“Yeah, and I went Cav so I could ride in and rescue them later in life,” Martin said. He squirmed slightly in his seat.
Guerra grunted. Martin hadn’t had any pain medication in hours, and he’d been forced to be more active than a man with his injuries should have been. No wonder the guy was sweating through his uniform; he was probably about ready to bite off his tongue. Guerra looked around the MRAP’s cab. While the vehicle itself was large, its interior space was far from spacious. Most of the vehicle’s bulk came from heavy armor and a blast-retardant V-shaped hull. All the accessories didn’t leave a lot of room for internal volume. Guerra didn’t think there was any safe way to switch drivers while the rig was in motion. If nothing else, Martin’s splinted leg would make that impossible, and attempting that would doubtless cause him immense pain. They would have to stop for a few minutes.
“Hatchet, this is Crusader One Two. Over.”
“Send it.”
“Hatchet, our driver is injured. We need to halt for a few and get him out from behind the wheel.”
There was a pause as the column’s leaders considered that. At the moment, the column was picking its way down a two-lane road on its w
ay toward Iowa. Litter lined the road, and abandoned vehicles were common—clearly, a substantial chunk of humanity had transited through the area some time ago. To the right, a screen of trees was all that could be seen. To the left was a vast field of corn that was going to waste from lack of attention. It wasn’t the most opportune place for the column to come to a halt, given that there was substantial concealment for any reekers in the area.
“Injured how, Crusader?”
“Compound fracture of the leg, Hatchet. Preexisting injury before the derail. We put him behind the wheel because he can still drive while the rest of us fought. Need to call a halt so I can swap him out. Over.”
“Crusader: Wait.”
“I can keep at it for a while longer,” Martin said.
“The fuck you can,” Guerra told him. “Can’t have you doped up and behind the wheel at the same time.”
“We stop here, we’ll be exposed.”
“Brother, we stop anywhere we’ll be exposed.” Guerra reached over and tapped Everson’s leg. “Hey, sir?”
Everson knelt down, holding onto the gunnery ring with his hands. “What’s up?”
Guerra pointed at Martin. “He needs to get out of there and take some pain meds. I’ll need you to drive for a while. We don’t need you on the fitty all the time.”
Everson jerked his hairy chin toward the rear of the MRAP. “And where am I going to sit, Guerra? We’re full up back here.”
“Awake enough to drive for a while? I want Martin in the passenger seat, and I’ll sit here.” Guerra slapped his hand against the platform Everson stood on, located just behind the front seats.
“Thought you were fucked up too,” Everson said.
“Not bad. Just sprained an ankle. I’ll take over from you in a couple of hours.”
These Dead Lands (Book 2): Desolation Page 26