Sol Survivors | Book 2 | Nashville Nightmare

by Benton, Ken

  Beyond the tents, a relatively flat area had been claimed by a Blackhawk squadron which would provide air support for the men on the ground on both sides of the clock. Everything was mobile and could be moved forward into the city limits as the operation progressed, but this place would likely be home for at least the next couple of days for the majority of the units assigned here.

  Partial briefing on an important mission was stressful because speculation inevitably filled the missing pieces. From speculation rumors would circulate. And it was always the most objectionable of the rumors that spread the farthest. The one they seemed to dislike the most was that of being ordered to shoot every last man, woman, and child found within the city, even if unarmed and attempting to surrender or begging for help. Another making the rounds was that disease was so bad in the demon’s dump it could penetrate their clothing and infect them, especially as they were forced to wade through literal lakes of putrefying human remains.

  Tillman got his squad situated at the mess tables and began moving about seeking idle nocturnal officers to learn whatever he could from. They were hard to find. One captain he was friends with pre-Helios offered some enlightening information.

  “It’s not completely the quagmire the men are imagining,” he said. “There are piles of bones in places, but they’ve been picked clean or else are mostly burned. Of course, none of our patrols have yet penetrated much farther than the airport neighborhoods. The residents are truly ugly, most are armed, and they all run. Some shoot at us first. We haven’t had any issues with soldiers reluctant to fire on them, and I doubt you will, either.”

  Tillman thanked him and rejoined his men. Coffee had bloomed on the table. Tillman poured himself a cup and relayed his intel to their noticeable relief.

  To add to their reassurance, both generals made an appearance and could be seen mingling during breakfast. This was a first. General Deatherage of the nocturnal forces and diurnal General Como, commander of the entire U.S. National Guard, strut about talking and occasionally smiling as if they were the best of friends. Even if it was an act aimed at strengthening morale, it was effective.

  After the meal the two generals did something else unprecedented. They stood on a makeshift platform together in the kitchen area, just high enough to be seen by all the surrounding tables, to address the troops. The uplifting murmurs which ensued were downright contagious. Tillman actually found himself excited, as if this nasty cleanup operation was something important and honorable.

  “Our forward patrols confirm there is no actual human life remaining in the demon’s dump,” General Deatherage began, “only the cannibalizing demons. You needn’t worry about innocent civilian casualties. The demons have eaten them all already.”

  Soldiers everywhere nodded to each other and gave heartening utterances.

  “And they would eat you, too,” General Como joined in, “and your families, if given half the chance. Know that for a certainty! Anyone who has become a cannibal has committed an unforgiveable sin and lost their very soul. They have forsaken the last line of humanity and crossed over to become a treacherous and hideous enemy to all citizens whom we are sworn to protect. The President wants this once-iconic city cleaned up. So that’s what we are doing, and not a moment too soon.”

  The soldiers reacted with louder voices this time, including some cheers and whistles.

  General Deatherage spoke again. “Each squad leader will be given a specific section to sweep. Now, in some areas this will have to be done house to house and even room by room. Some of the demons may have automatic weapons. But they are cowards, with a limited ammunition supply. We expect them to run like the cockroaches they are, and fight only as they retreat. You’ll see the scrawny wretches scurrying haphazardly, with their poor posture, and learn to recognize them quickly. Shoot on sight without thinking twice, whether they are armed or not. We’ll eventually link up and drive the remainder of them into the river. With around-the clock operations, we hope to complete the mission in two weeks’ time.”

  The two generals conferred privately for a minute before General Como launched into a more official oration, with specific instructions for each squad leader. Tillman drew an easy task for the day. His squad was to proceed west on Interstate 40 to secure the airport buildings south of the highway, and establish a forward post in one of the buildings where they may even sleep tonight. If they had time, they would make sweeping patrols of the neighborhoods west of the airport up to the large freeway interchange.

  The job included taking one vehicle with them, a light truck with equipment for establishing the post. A mess crew would arrive by helicopter as soon as Tillman radioed to declare the area secure. Tillman took two of his men to the gas station to fuel the truck, and sent the rest ahead to wait at the interstate onramp.

  It was at the gas station where Tillman learned of the first prisoner of the operation, someone associated with the gas voucher scheme that had been growing across the south. Tillman remembered the smug son of a bitch from Montgomery when he saw him. He couldn’t help but smile at seeing him light one of those haughty thin cigarettes with a worrisome frown, waiting in the custody of two MPs for the diurnal forces to assign a vehicle to take him to the Three Point prison camp.

  So far so good. Tillman had one of his men drive the truck, and the other occupy the passenger seat with him. When they reached the rest of the squad, Tillman jumped out and walked. They would hike the interstate in a broad formation abreast of each other with the truck following slowly. The nocturnal squads had cleared most of the immediate highway debris, so the first stretch was easy marching.

  While the storm had moved to the southeast, a mist still hung in the gray light of predawn as Tillman’s crew passed the final established checkpoint on the interstate.

  So when Tillman saw a utility-size vehicle slowly approaching from the wrong side of the highway, in the same military-style formation with several human figures walking in front, he assumed it was the remnant of a nocturnal patrol coming in late.

  “Hold your fire!” he yelled, in case the generals’ speeches had made any of his men too trigger happy.

  But the formation was shortly revealed to consist of civilians—which was disconcerting, especially after that breakfast briefing. The vehicle proved to be a light-colored SUV.

  “Hold your fire,” Tillman repeated. He could see none were visibly armed, and also that they did not exactly bear the image of the “demon” city residents the two generals planted in everyone’s mind.

  Well, two of the three, anyway. The other was scrawny by comparison and wearing something over his face like a blindfold, or perhaps a bandage for an eye injury. He held on to the side mirror with one of his hands so he could walk along the SUV as it crawled forward.

  It turned out not to be an eye injury. That one suddenly removed his face covering with his free hand when Tillman repeated the order. Upon seeing Tillman’s squad approaching, he took off running the opposite way. And dammit, he did run in a hunched-over fashion.

  “Halt!” Tillman shouted after him.

  The other two people stopped, and so did the vehicle. But the scrawny one kept fleeing.

  “Stop or we’ll shoot!”

  He didn’t stop.

  Tillman looked to the eyes of the others for a possible quick nonverbal explanation. He settled on the taller man, as he appeared the most mature of the three. The one who walked beside him, as well as the one driving, were both young, the age of many of Tillman’s privates. The tall one also had a more hardened and wise air about him. His reaction upon locking eyes with Tillman was only to shrug, as if he held no concern over the one from his group who fled.

  “Fire on the runner!” Tillman ordered.

  Two of his soldiers fired, but it was too late. The runner had flung himself over the highway railing into a gap between the eastbound and westbound lanes, to fall whatever the distance was there to the ground.

  “Freeze!” Tillman yelled at the others. “Don
’t move!”

  They all held their hands up, even the driver.

  “Don’t shoot,” the tall one said. “We’re citizens from Morgan County.”

  Tillman took several steps towards him. “Are you armed?”

  “We have handguns,” he replied. “I have an injured man, who needs medical attention.” He motioned towards the driver of the vehicle, who had the windows down so he could hear, but both hands still up.

  Tillman ordered his men to search them. They made the driver get out of the vehicle, who limped while holding on to the open door and then the hood. One handgun was found on each person and confiscated.

  “Who was that other one with you?” Tillman demanded.

  “A local,” the oldest one replied lowering his hands. “A … cannibal gang member. We were holding him in custody.”

  Tillman experienced a rare moment of indecision. What was he supposed to do with these three?

  That’s when the lieutenant in his squad spoke.

  “McConnell? Is that you?”

  The tall one squinted at the lieutenant and nodded as the lieutenant came forward.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?” the lieutenant asked.

  The one he called McConnell shook his head.

  “It’s okay Major,” the lieutenant said turning to Tillman. “These are law-abiding civilians. I know them. They are friends of Colonel Matheson, in fact.”

  “You have got to be kidding. What the hell are they doing here?”

  “It’s a long story,” McConnell answered. He turned to the lieutenant. “Is Colonel Cowboy—I mean, Colonel Matheson … here?”

  The lieutenant chuckled. “Some of us call him that, too. Not to his face. He’s stuck at Three Point on tribunal business. Mad as hell about it. But he sure likes his new hat.”

  McConnell raised his eyes to the eastern sky. “I need to get to Three Point to testify as a witness in a tribunal myself.”

  The two youths both gaped at McConnell with undisguised shock.

  Tillman glared at his lieutenant in response to him disclosing potentially classified information, but then turned and cracked a mischievous smile at this McConnell fellow.

  “We have a vehicle shortly headed there, Mr. McConnell, if you don’t mind sharing the back seat.”

  “No,” McConnell instantly replied. “I don’t.”

  * * *

  The rain had mostly let up in the early gray light, but it left muddy gravel roads. Red walked off the side of the driveway along the weed clumps, sometimes weaving between the trees, careful to maneuver the shovel on his shoulder between them. When he reached the street he was relieved to not see any noctos still hanging about.

  Up a ways, he stopped at the Bronson driveway and briefly thought about seeing if Hal was up yet. But Red wasn’t friendly with Hal. Of course, he wasn’t friendly with anyone except Debra and Callaway, and now perhaps finally Joel. Also, Hal didn’t typify a person you pictured when recruiting help for a tedious manual labor job. Rob Danson was obviously not an option, either. And according to Joel, the tenant was pretty freaked out so probably didn’t have the stomach for it.

  Red wasn’t sure he had the stomach for it, either. Yes, he’d been part of a criminal gang, but dead bodies weren’t supposed to be involved. That venture was mostly about commercial theft and selling stolen goods, or so Red was told. The other three guys turned out to be pretty hardened, and were always eager for an opportunity to meet any threat to their egos with violence.

  Red was happily surprised last night when Callaway agreed to help with the job. Unfortunately, he didn’t stick around for it, unless he was already there. Red didn’t see him as he made his way up the driveway of the rental house.

  It was the way Nancy neighed in the middle of the night that alerted Red something was wrong. She was upset. Debra didn’t wake up, but Red was more in tune with Nancy’s communications than anyone.

  When Red looked out the window in response, he saw Callaway leaving in a driving rain. There was something in the way he walked that suggested he was in pain. Red managed to slip outside to ask him what was wrong from the shelter of the covered porch.

  “I feel I’ve lost something,” he replied—which was a weird thing to say since he was wearing all the clothes he owned, which meant he had everything he owned.

  “We lost something,” Callaway tried to explain. “Something that hurts. I’m going for a walk.” He never even looked up at Red and just kept trudging forward out the driveway.

  While Red knew Debra would be concerned, he also knew she expected whimsical behavior from Callaway, so it wasn’t worth waking her up over. Neither did Red bother waking her up when he left the house himself in the gray light. He made a check of the property first, and all appeared secure. There didn’t figure to be many active people, other than Callaway, during that storm last night. Some of the thunderbolts crashed frighteningly close.

  Red continued up the Maddock house driveway. He didn’t see any light from candles burning inside, though all the curtains and blinds were shut tight. But he stepped cautiously nevertheless, knowing the tenants were jumpy.

  No bodies on the ground. It wouldn’t be like Joel to leave them sprawled where they fell. Red peeked inside the barn. Nothing. He came around the cars to the far side of the barn.

  That’s when he noticed the sagging rear end of the yellow Celica. And the trunk not fully closed. And the foot sticking out the crack in the trunk.

  Red checked the driver’s seat. Yep, keys on the seat. He wedged the shovel on the floor of the passenger side and cranked the ignition. It started right up.

  The ground behind the barn was sloped and rocky with rodent mounds among the low brush. Red found the tires attained reasonable traction across it. He headed towards the rear of the property line where the rain had deepened a natural gulley. That would give him a head start on the digging. Twice he had to put the car in low gear to get through mud as he made the final approach. When he reached a good spot he turned it around to face the barn, and then backed it closer to the gulley.

  Red grabbed the shovel and got out. Yes, this was a dirty job all right. But at least the earth was soft enough to dig here.

  He’d gone about a foot deep when he spotted two human figures walking towards him through the morning mist. Both had objects resting on their shoulders. One of them had two objects.

  Red stuck his shovel in the ground in order to keep his pistol at the ready. When they came a little closer he recognized the forms. They weren’t the tenants.

  It was old man Dunn and one of the youths. The youth had a shovel on his shoulder. Dunn had a pick on one shoulder and his shotgun on the other.

  Red held the pistol in both hands above his head in clear view.

  They stopped. Dunn told the kid something and pointed at a spot on the ground. The kid appeared to argue.

  Dunn raised his voice enough for Red to hear him say, “Just do it!” Dunn then bent down to place his shotgun on the spot he’d pointed at. When he straightened back up, it was the first time Red, or probably anyone in the neighborhood, diurnal or otherwise, saw old man Dunn without his shotgun as an additional appendage.

  Red could now also see that the youth was Dunn’s son. The kid took a pistol from his pants and set it with the shotgun. The two of them proceeded to come forward. Red lowered his weapon but remained alert as they arrived.

  “We came to help,” Dunn said.

  Red glared at his son and asked, “Where’s Lyle?”

  “I made him stay at the house,” Dunn answered. “He’s a hothead, and we didn’t come for more dangerous peacocking like that nonsense last night. We’ll help you dig this hole during the hour we have left before we need to get inside.”

  “Why?” Red asked.

  “I was thinking,” Dunn said. “And doing some guessing. I see I wasn’t far off in my guess. We may not get along like peas in a pod, but I’m not blind, deaf, or stupid. McConnell is an arrogant S.O.B. to be sure. I re
alize some folks might say that about me as well. And he makes some poor decisions. But he doesn’t go out of his way looking for fights. They seem to have a way of finding him. We either have to live with y’all or get rid of you, and there are benefits to a peaceful solution, such as my son staying alive. Last night I saw how close he came to failing at that. It also appears that you yourself are bound and determined to stick around, and have successfully attached yourself to a prominent household, as much as that sticks in our craw. What I see here this morning is apparently the remains of a neighborhood problem that came from elsewhere. So if we are to be neighbors, I will endeavor myself to help with a neighborhood problem.”

  “All right.” Red put his gun away. “If you want to dig, dig. I’m sure Mr. McConnell will appreciate this.”

  “Here,” Dunn said handing the pick to Red. “You’ll be better with this than me.”

  Red accepted it and stepped backwards, staying aware. Dunn pulled the shovel out of the ground. He and his son went to work.

  When Red felt comfortable enough to join them, he took one last look around.

  Sure enough, someone with a shotgun stepped out from the side of the barn. It was Debra. She waved at Red before turning to walk away.

  Red returned the wave.

  Chapter Twenty Five

  The other passenger in the back seat of the Humvee had a mysterious air about him. And he appeared pensive. But then, so was Joel.

  “Do you mind?” Were the first words he spoke to Joel.

  Joel looked at the thin cigarette in his hand. “Is that a clove?”

  “No.” He held it sideways. “They are mild cigarettes and don’t produce much smoke or odor. If you crack your window you probably won’t notice it.”