The Scott Pfeiffer Story (Book 2): Sheol

by Woods, Shane

  “I can deal with weird,” she corrected.

  I began putting my chest rig on, realizing the mistake of slinging my rifle first, and removing that for the other. In a moment, I was suited up, opting to put my flannel on over the whole carrier and rig setup, then connecting the buttons only up high enough to secure my jacket from flapping, but leaving my pistol and spare magazines relatively accessible.

  “You don’t know Pfeiffer weird, kid.” I smiled broadly and hugged her from beside where she sat. She tensed for just a moment before realizing and returning the gesture.

  As Jennifer watched, I shouldered the heavy three-day assault pack, then slung my rifle back into place, allowing it to drop into place with the three-point sling. Finally, I secured my radio under my jacket and moved the earpiece into my left ear. Clicking it on, it immediately filled with chatter.

  “On my way up to get him now, over,” came an unfamiliar voice.

  “No need, on my way down now. Over,” I spoke into it, then, to the girls around the dining table, “Guess that’s my cue! Love ya!”

  Jennifer and little Gwen both returned the phrase, Hannah’s mouth dropped open to speak, then closed just as quickly. I didn’t think much of it as I closed the door behind me and turned into the hallway.

  As usual, I drifted into thought, only to be minutely interrupted as Ryan stuck his head out of the command room door and called after me.

  “Had no contacts all night,” he informed, “and every road in our vicinity is mostly clear.”

  “Mostly?” I asked as I continued walking, mildly hurrying.

  “Few infected popping up, nothing big or unusual,” he advised.

  As I had already passed and mostly cleared the hallway’s length, I just replied with a thumbs-up over my shoulder, then closed it into a fist as I turned and burst through the doorway to the stairwell.

  It had become so normal these days that I had to actually think to recognize how alien everything was.

  I left a fairly typical family scene, for the most part. A family of three and a roommate, Dad getting ready to leave for work early. The rest of them gathered around the table for a simple breakfast. Normal, if you can ignore the patriarch strapping on a loaded plate carrier and three firearms, I guess.

  Then I immediately leave my door and become ‘Boss’, being updated before I could even leave my own home building. Moments away from breaking shelter for a crisp, cool morning where we would go out into the world to take someone else’s likely free-roaming cattle and possibly have to shoot at humans and monsters alike.

  Who was it that first said, ‘What a world we live in’? I’d like to shake the guy around a bit at this point, he had no idea what I wouldn’t give to go back to how things were.

  I cut the end of a stale cigar as I exited the stairwell to the first floor, pausing to light it in the doorway before leaving through the main doors.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Clara’s voice chimed through my earpiece, “Elvis has left the building. Over.”

  “Can’t be,” came Fred’s smooth country voice in reply, “Elvis was a handsome fella. What is that? Over.”

  “I’m armed,” I warned, “and I haven’t even cracked my thermos yet. Over.”

  “Shutting up. Over!” Clara chirped in reply.

  I chuckled as I neared the ramp down into Henry’s parking garage. The air was instantly heavy with humidity, as we had been getting a steady drizzle until late the previous day and the ventilation in the garage hadn’t been turned on in months.

  I nodded to a nearby group of mixed individuals, all equally as well-equipped as I, but with a bigger variety of weapons than any gun shop I had ever entered. And as I passed, they fell in behind me and began walking toward the short row of three large pickup trucks, two trailered, one empty.

  I opened the door to the truck without a trailer and got in to find Clara, Fred, and Parker all waiting. Without a word nor ceremony, I got in and turned the key, waiting a moment for the diesel’s glow plugs to cycle, then started the pickup.

  I blasted the horn twice and began to pull up the ramp and back to ground-level as the other trucks fell in behind me, people rushing to mount up before we moved too far. I felt a few thuds and rocking on my own vehicle, checking my mirror to see four people pile into the bed of my own truck, the usual array of survivors that had flooded our originally miniscule population.

  “You may very well have the largest standing army in the state,” Clara joked, reading my thoughts.

  “Doesn’t matter if we don’t know where we’re going though,” I replied, then pulled the truck past Rich’s armory, and stopped just short of the inner gate at the end of the driveway.

  “What’s up boss?” buzzed the radio. “Problems with that Chevy already? Over.”

  “Just getting our heading, smartass,” I called back lightly, “Over.”

  “Looks like we hit the outer gate east,” Clara started, presenting a local map and tracing a line with her finger. “Then head due north to the avenue, follow it east, then we cross over here, and finally here. After this pretty much any east and west road that direction leads straight into the countryside.”

  “Find any good farms out there?” I asked her. “Anywhere to start a search?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” she said flatly. “I’m from the suburbs too. So, no, but don’t farmers always have to fix fences?”

  “What are you saying?” I asked, curious.

  “Like, I don’t know,” She resigned. “You always hear about farmers mending fences and shit, so don’t the animals break them sometimes?”

  “You’re saying,” I suggested, “that even if we knew where a cow farm or whatever is, they could just be running around all willy-nilly like?”

  “You fuckin’ city idiots,” Fred chimed in from the back.

  “What the hell?” I said, turning in my seat to view his big toothy grin.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, tilting his hat, “just drive. Y’all are half-right, they’ll be there. But I do have to say, cows don’t ‘run around all willy-nilly’.”

  “Shut up Fred,” I laughed. “Nobody likes backseat drivers.”

  “You’ll like me,” he said assuredly, “when it’s a cattle drive.”

  “Fucker,” I muttered and put the truck into gear as the inner gate took note and began opening.

  As Clara said, I drove straight through the outer ring of our compound, and toward the eastern gate.

  As I passed, I took note of just how much we had stripped so far. Much of the surrounding neighborhood was bare, with large squares of land where some houses used to be, already covered with hay and seemingly settled in for the winter; hopefully these lots would have crops growing in them after the cold weather.

  The yards were nearly entirely empty, too. Almost all of the fencing around had been scavenged to bolster and thicken the outer wall. Henry had been convinced that even a tank would have a hard time penetrating them, especially with the dirt piled behind said walls from digging the tremendous dry-moat.

  We approached the outer gate and slowed the truck, then stopped it as the gate on our side of the bridge over the moat opened. At this time, my driver’s window got knocked on.

  “Cody?” I interrogated as I rolled the window down. “You’re supposed to be on another truck.”

  “I’m riding with you,” he explained, “how else can I help look for places you need to check? You’d be past them before I could say anything if I was following you.”

  I rolled my eyes, shut the window, and waited just a moment before clicking the button to unlock the doors. Just long enough to make him think, maybe wonder.

  The rear door swung open and the truck rocked a bit as the large man eased himself into the seat, squishing Parker between him and Fred. They looked at each other, and both cowboy hats nodded. This was going to be interesting.

  As Cody eased into position, the gate finished opening and we pulled our truck through to wait f
or the inner gate to close and the outer to open. Once the outer had opened, we pulled across the gap and turned left, pulling up far enough to wait for the other two rigs.

  The guys filling out the backseat spoke quietly amongst themselves as Clara retraced our route over and over again, her lips moving silently as she did so. She pushed her shoulder-length auburn hair behind her ears, the lighter color coming back in over time as it grew and she cut it, clearly having been dyed previously. She wasn’t a bad looking woman, her angular features and deep-set eyes lending her an almost Eastern-European look if I had to guess. I still didn’t know her age for sure, but I guessed late-thirties at most, despite the recent stress and conditions making us all appear older, wiser, and more worn than any of our years should have allowed.

  “Boss?” Clara asked as I stared into the distance. “They’re ready.”

  “Yeah, of course,” I agreed blindly, and put my truck into drive and pulled away, the other two teams following me.

  We hit the nearest main road above us on the map and took a right to head due East.

  Most of the area around our compound had been cleaned and cleared, and every other day a crew went out that had no purpose other than freeing up the roadways, so it wasn’t until maybe a half-mile from our little home that we ran into a few snags. Some spots were tight enough that while a truck could squeeze through, the slightly-wider trailers scraped. Every time we would cringe, wondering if the noise would attract runners, and therefore we kept the pace fairly brisk despite the dangers.

  Occasionally, we would come across a totally blocked intersection, or, less frequently, an impassible roadway. It was always handled the same way.

  The two trucks behind us would back up a ways just in case it was an ambush so our lead vehicle wouldn’t be totally surrounded. While they did that, Clara would get out and attach the tow rope to the offending obstacle, and I would put the little Chevy Duramax diesel to work.

  We’d found some clusters of infected, but they would be taken care of quietly and systematically. Several of the survivors manning the crews had small-caliber rifles and pistols that were fitted with oil filters using adapters for use as suppressors. Another of Rich and Ash’s ideas, and, while not quite as effective as an actual suppressor, they did work quite well. For at least a limited amount of shots they seemed to quiet anything up to a 9mm down to not much more than a loud clap. Any advantage we could get, I was happy for.

  The short line of trucks continued on mostly unhindered, all things considered. I had expected it to be a never ending stoppage of clearing traffic and debris. Thankfully, aside from the aforementioned, it had gone easier than expected.

  As we traveled, the houses became further spaced apart. The trip eastward seemed to stretch the properties themselves, as if traveling across a black hole in space.

  The weather even seemed to accent this, as we traversed more roadway, the morning transitioned from overcast, to mostly cloudy, and now even the clouds seemed to space themselves out more, almost as if echoing the property lines.

  This isn’t to say that we’d run out of the infected in these lower population areas. Everywhere you looked, you could catch sign or trail of them. Sometimes they could be seen openly wandering through overgrown lawns, or in stands of trees.

  Other times, and much more unsettling, was the signs of a kill. Usually, not much more than a blood trail streaked up a driveway and into a home or other structure. Too fresh for the rain to have washed away, and a stark reminder that these things were still eating. Still thriving.

  And something else. Something I wasn’t quite sure if anyone had noticed, and I tried to make a mental note to bring it up in future meetings. The infected weren’t just killing and eating in the open. Even out here, in the rural areas, they were carrying or even dragging their meals away. Were they merely hiding? Covering their tracks, even? Or could there be dens?

  I dared not to let my mind dwell for too long on that last thought.

  “I have to use the restroom,” Parker spoke up from the back, which instantly sparked chuckles from the rest of us. The kid wasn’t a child, though still in his teens or so. But he sure acted like one more often than not.

  “Number one or number two?” I jousted.

  “I have to pee,” he nearly mumbled.

  “I’m not stopping,” I warned him.

  “Use my spit jug,” Cody offered him, offering the jug full of brown spit and tobacco to him. This set Fred and Clara into a fit of laughter as Parker visibly revulsed at the idea.

  “Kid,” I spoke, “we aren’t stopping this truck until we get to grandma and grandpa’s for Christmas dinner. We don’t want to be late now, do we?”

  “I really have to go,” Parker said amongst even harder laughter from the others.

  “Here,” I said as I hit the switch to roll down his window. “Stick your body out and pee. Just, uh, point it behind us. Don’t pee into the wind.”

  More of an uproar ripped through the truck as he sat irritated, lowering his head to look at the floor.

  “Scott!” Clara shouted suddenly. “Brakes!”

  I saw it just as she had and flattened my foot down on the pedal. I could feel it pulsing back against the arch of my foot as the ABS system took over.

  Shouts of protest rang through the cabin as we stopped just short of the new blockage.

  Before a single thought could gather, we were all rocked by a heavy WHAM as the truck behind us didn’t stop nearly as quickly, making fast friends with our tailgate. Another, softer impact shook its way through the truck as the third vehicle hit the second truck’s trailer, forcing them to give us a nearly motherly second tap on the rear.

  “What the fuck?” I exclaimed, then grabbed my radio. “Everyone okay? Over.”

  The calls came back with nothing more than bumps and scratches, mostly from those riding in truck beds.

  “Tail truck, back up twenty yards to the crest of the hill,” I continued. “Then everybody dismounts. Over.”

  I waited a moment for the third truck to back up, pull forward to straighten its trailer, then take three more tries to back the distance before the driver finally got it right and was able to cross the distance to the top hill, then the truck behind us removed its front bumper from our tailgate and eased back one truck length.

  As I reached for my door handle, the others did so as well, and we all left the truck, save for the guys in the bed who remained to provide cover from an elevated position.

  “Log,” I stated, rounding the front of the truck to look at the obstacle in our path.

  “More like a whole fucking tree,” Clara opined, eyeing it as well.

  “This is a trap,” I stated flatly, removing my eyes from the obstruction and scanning our surroundings.

  We were right by the edge of what appeared to be a grass field. Maybe, at some point, it held crops of one sort or another, but by now it was thick vegetation every bit as tall as I was. To our left lay the field, with woodland preceding it; on the left was a solid patch of woodland the entire length of the hill.

  “I don’t like this,” Clara said, the tension strong in her voice.

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “me either. And look at this.”

  I brought my rifle up to a low-ready position and motioned with my free hand. In several places, what looked nearly like deer trails had been cut into the overgrowth. Narrow footpaths here and there leading off of the roadway.

  “First team,” I said quietly to those around me, “get one end of this log and start pushing. Spin it and roll it off the road. I don’t want to risk pushing it with the truck.”

  “You got it,” Cody complied and motioned the others forward. They took a moment, and began pushing, moving the log only inches at a time. It had to be at least three feet thick, another fifteen in length. It had to have taken a team to move it into this position, and, looking at the cut ends, it sure didn’t fall here on its own. This was definitely a trap.

  “Second team,” I spoke qui
etly into the radio, “to me. Now. Over.”

  They were around me in a mere moment, not really being far enough to use the radio to have called them, but it helped them all hear me at once.

  “Team three, extra vigilant, boys, this is a trap we’ve wandered into. Over,” I ordered into the radio.

  “You’re my lead,” I spoke to the young black man I recognized as Harrison from a recent encounter with him.

  “What’s good, boss?” he said in return, his voice barely above a whisper.

  “Nothing, that’s what,” I replied, then pointed out the paths through the vegetation. “This one. It looks fresher. Your whole team follows it. Quietly, and be ready to shoot. Whoever this is, they didn’t do all this to invite us for dinner.”

  “Yes, sir.” Harrison gulped audibly, then motioned to the rest and began a low crouch walk into the flora to our left. I joined my team in moving the log, all the while listening carefully for any sign of encounter from the second team.

  Right about the time my team had grunted the log aside, and let it roll into the ditch with a slow, soft crash, my radio came to life. It was Harrison.

  “Uh, sir? You need to see this,” he suggested. “The path splits, go right at the fork for 20 paces. Over.”

  “Got it. Keep the channel clear,” I instructed, then, “Third team, move your truck and team forward to meet the second truck and watch our asses from the roadway. Stay vigilant. We may have contacts. Over.”

  I listened to the affirmative reply and their truck started, a low rumble growing closer as I gathered my own people.

  “Fred, is that all you brought?” I asked, motioning to his bolt-action hunting rifle.

  “My backup won two World Wars,” he patted the Colt 1911 on his hip. “I’ll be just fine.”

  “Your backup,” I growled, “is known worldwide for being pretty until it jams, and only carries eight rounds. Stay here.”

  I turned and approached the front door of our truck as the third team moved theirs into position and cut the ignition again.

  Reaching into the floorspace of the front seat, I retrieved the rifle that lay there, grabbed the three spare magazines from the center console, and departed the vehicle again.