Surviving The Dead | Book 9 | War Without End

by Cook, James N.

  In the distance beyond, I saw the lights of our closest neighbor, Memorial Hospital. It had once been part of the UC Health system, but UC Health did not exist anymore, so everyone just called it Memorial Hospital. A memorial to what, I had no idea.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Warehouse just east of the Refugee District.”

  “Opium?”

  “Not sure. All we found were bodies. Could have been a deal gone bad, maybe.”

  “Could have been anything.”

  A pause. “Will you take a look? I could really use some help on this one.”

  “How old is the scene?”

  “Less than eight hours, best I can tell.”

  “Contaminated?”

  “No. Warehouse supervisor reported it at seven this morning. Uniforms checked for survivors and then sealed off the area. No one but me has been in or out since.”

  “Cops disturb the bodies?”

  “No.”

  I turned from the window, walked over to a cabinet, removed a green thermos, and poured the rest of the coffee into it. Then I emptied my gym bag, put in the thermos, and added half a dozen stacked wooden cups.

  “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Gabriel,

  Refugee District

  Three CSPD officers milled around the warehouse’s main entrance and huddled as much of themselves as they could into their dark blue winter uniforms. The uniforms were new, issued a few months ago by the federal government. They were made of wool, and the cut of the cloth looked like something out of the 19th century. The shiny badges, duty belts, holsters, radios, and Glock service weapons made for a strange contrast.

  The officers had set up a rope and barriers around the crime scene. Every few feet a wooden sign dangled from the perimeter rope reading: CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS. The signs were painted yellow and the lettering was black stencil. I guessed the local precinct must have run out of crime scene tape and decided to improvise.

  I looked around trying to spot the officer in charge, which is not generally difficult at crime scenes. You just find the person with the grayest hair and the sourest expression. In this case, the man who fit the description was short, lean, and had a thick mustache like an old-west lawman. A gold embroidered badge decorated his hat, and he wore a police sergeant’s insignia. As we approached, Stan said in a low voice that these were not the same cops who had been there earlier, to which I suggested they must have rotated out at shift change. Stan agreed.

  “Special Agent in Charge Kaminsky, Organized Crime Task Force,” Stan said, holding up his ID. The old sergeant glanced at it, then pointed at me.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Consultant. He’s with me.”

  The cop looked me up and down, his face blank. I stared back. The mustache twitched once, and then he lifted the perimeter rope and let us through. Before we proceeded toward the warehouse, I opened the gym bag and began filling a cup from the thermos.

  “You fellas look cold,” I said. “How about some coffee?”

  Seven years ago, it would have been a casual statement that would have elicited a muted, if positive, response. Coffee was no big deal back then. But now, when the C-word came out of my mouth, the cops stood up straight and I could swear their ears got pointy.

  “Is that real coffee?” the sergeant asked.

  “Yep.” I handed him a cup. He sniffed at it, then sipped it carefully. His eyes widened.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Haven’t had this stuff in years.”

  “Got enough for all you guys. How many on the other side of the building?”

  “Two men watching the south gate.”

  The other uniforms walked over. I poured them some of the dark liquid and watched with amusement as it dawned on them they were not drinking the increasingly rare instant stuff, but something that had come from whole roasted beans. One of them was so impressed I was worried he might cry.

  Kaminsky waited while I walked around the building and served the other two cops. When I asked him if he minded, he told me the bodies were not going anywhere. Take your time.

  When I got back to the main gate the thermos was empty. In my generosity, I had forgotten to save some for myself. Not that it mattered. I had more back at the office.

  I walked up next to Kaminsky and the two of us stared in silence at the main entry for a while. The doors were open, the interior dark and forbidding, the outline of tall steel shelves skeletal against the black. The sky overhead was cloudy and gray like the color of galvanized steel. It was well below freezing outside, and the wind sent streaks of loose snow flying low across the ground. We stood and shuffled our feet and shoved numb hands deep into our pockets.

  “Guess we better get in there,” Kaminsky said finally.

  I looked at the sky. “Yeah. I guess we better.”

  *****

  “What do you think?”

  I finished walking a circle around the bodies. “Not sure yet. Be right back.”

  I walked to a row of shelves near where the dead men lay. Bullet holes stared back at me from the sides of wooden crates filled with dried meat and dehydrated fruit. The crates sat on metal shelves, and I could see cavities where some of the bullets had punched through and scrapes where others had ricocheted off. I walked to the end of the warehouse and studied the wall. There were a few pock marks where errant projectiles had struck the concrete. None had created much damage. I walked back to Kaminsky.

  “Two calibers,” I said when I reached him. “5.56 and nine-millimeter. Full auto weapons, judging by the shot patterns. I’m guessing full metal jackets all around.”

  “Matches what I’ve found so far.”

  I looked over my shoulder. “These guys never had a chance. Their weapons are still holstered. Just pistols, no long guns. They weren’t expecting trouble.”

  Kaminsky scanned the corpses. “But they sure as hell got some.”

  I grunted in agreement. “They must have been expecting their killers. This was some kind of a meeting. The victims knew the perpetrators, which would explain why these poor bastards were lightly armed and didn’t have their weapons ready.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then the killers drew and opened fire. Cut these guys down in seconds. Short, controlled bursts. Mostly accurate, but with automatic weapons, you always get a few strays.”

  “I haven’t counted yet,” Kaminsky said. “But it looks like a lot more bullets hit than missed.”

  “Right. We’re not dealing with amateurs here. These guys had training. They knew how to handle their weapons. Beyond that, their weapons were concealed, which means they were smaller than standard rifles. The nine-mils had to have been submachine guns. The 5.56 rounds…well I can only think of one weapon in that caliber that’s concealable under a long coat.”

  “What’s that?”

  “MK-18,” I said, pronouncing the military ‘MK’ designation as ‘mark’.

  “What makes you think that’s what they used?”

  “The Navy developed the MK-18 for close quarters use. I had a few chances to use it in the field back in the Marines. Not as much velocity as a longer rifle, but more maneuverable. It would be good for something like this. You know, people dressed heavy, long coats. Then there’s also the fact that a whole shipment of them got hijacked about a year ago. Ambush on an Army convoy outside of Dodge City.”

  “I remember.”

  “Only one truck got hit, and it was the only one anything was stolen from. And the raiders only took the six crates with the rifles in them. Nothing else.”

  Kaminsky looked at me. “You think it was an inside job?”

  I shrugged. “If it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…”

  “Right.”

  “So what we have here is either the people responsible for the attack, or a bunch of assholes who bought the guns after the fact.”

  “Could you make a MK-18 from an M-4? You know, chop the barrel or something?�
�

  I shrugged. “It’s feasible, but just cutting the barrel isn’t enough. It has to be cut precisely, then threaded for a flash hider and re-crowned. And the gas port has to be modified. You would need precision tools and a machine shop for that. You would also need to use a different buffer assembly, otherwise the weapon would be unreliable.”

  Kaminsky grunted, pulled a notepad from his pocket, and wrote something on it. “There’s only a few machine shops in town. I’ll follow up on that.”

  “Good idea. But I don’t think you’re going to find anything.”

  “You think these guys have the stolen guns?”

  “I do. And I think I know who stole them.”

  That got the agent’s full attention. “Who?”

  “Ever heard of the Storm Road Tribe?”

  Kaminsky closed his eyes, rubbed the back of his neck, and said a few four-lettered words.

  “Yeah. I have.”

  “I’ve gone up against them before. They’re highly trained, and I’d say their leaders are ex-military, probably special operations. Bold sons of bitches. I was with a convoy a while back, a big one. Everyone in it was armed and had fought off attacks before. Not an easy target. But the Storm Road Tribe wiped them out like they were nothing.”

  Kaminsky looked at me intently. “I remember hearing about that. Didn’t know you were involved. Can you tell me what happened?”

  “Not much to tell, really. They set up an ambush in an abandoned town using scavenged military ordnance. The caravan only had small arms. It was a fucking slaughter. Only reason I survived is because I ran like hell and didn’t look back.”

  Stan shook his head and looked away. “Jesus.”

  There was more to the story, but my part in it was not something Kaminsky needed to hear right then. He knew what he needed to know. I pointed at the dead bodies.

  “Any idea who these guys are?”

  A sigh. “Yeah. Local street hoods. Call themselves the Sicarios, ironically enough. I’ve seen all four of these guys before, but never could pin anything on them.”

  “Why not?”

  “You know how it is. They do something bad, like a shooting or a robbery, and there’s witnesses all around, but nobody saw a damn thing. Story of my life.”

  “Somebody’s moving in on them. This wasn’t just a robbery. If it were, the bodies would have been moved. Whoever did this is trying to send a message.”

  “And you think it was SRT?”

  “SRT? Is that what you call them?”

  “Easier to say than Storm Road Tribe.”

  I took a long breath of cold air and thought for a moment. “If these guys are prolific enough to warrant an acronym from the FBI, then they’re more than just a minor presence in the city.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  “I’m thinking they’re tied in with the other shootings from the last few months.”

  Kaminsky said nothing.

  “And I’m also thinking these guys are ambitious. I’ve heard about murders and disappearances all over town that are still unsolved. Did any of them look like this one?”

  Kaminsky’s face fell and he scratched at his jaw. “Yeah. All of them.”

  “Then we know exactly what’s going on here.”

  The Special Agent in Charge of the Colorado Springs Organized Crime Task Force pulled a satellite phone from his coat and began dialing.

  “Yeah,” he said. “SRT is pushing out the competition.”

  “And taking over their operations.”

  Kaminsky walked away to make his call. I stared at the dead bodies, at young men who were probably just teenagers when the Outbreak hit, and felt a deep sense of loss. It never ceased to sadden me the choices people made with their lives. These kids could have been anything, chosen any path they wanted. But instead of doing something worthwhile, they had walked a road that ended with them lying face down in a pool of their own blood.

  I walked out of the warehouse and waited for the medical examiner to arrive.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Eric,

  Somewhere east of Colorado Springs

  “Horde incoming, two o’clock.”

  I awoke from a lazy doze and looked up. The announcement had come from a bullhorn at the head of the wagon train. I was only six wagons back, so the horn was jarringly loud. My wife was already looking in the stated direction. I followed her gaze.

  “Shit.”

  My son stirred in Allison’s arms and looked at me, blinking his bright blue eyes.

  “Dada,” he said, and struggled upright. Allison smiled and helped him up. The little guy scrambled into my lap and sat astride one of my thighs, his little arms grasping my neck.

  “That was loud,” he said sleepily.

  “I know, son,” I said, stroking the back of his head. His baby-fine brown hair was soft under my hand. I hugged him close and kissed him on the temple.

  “Are the monsters coming?”

  I let out a sigh. “Yes, son. They are.”

  “Eric…” Allison said.

  I shot her a look. We’d had this discussion before. I was of the opinion there was no point in lying to the little guy. He had inherited his mother’s keen intelligence, and although he was not yet three years old, he did not miss much. His pre-school teachers all agreed his speech was far advanced over his peers, and the fact he could already count to a hundred and recite the alphabet spoke of an uncommonly talented mind.

  Allison relented and turned her head northward.

  “Are you gonna go fight the monsters?” Gabriel asked. He was the namesake of my oldest and best friend, Gabriel Garrett.

  “Yes, son. I am.”

  “You’re good at fighting monsters.”

  I smiled and gave my little boy another kiss. “Yes, son. I am.”

  The signalman at the front of the train stood up and waved a black flag on a long wooden pole. Drivers pulled on reins, and animals lowed and grunted and blasted foggy breath into the winter air. The wagon train slowed to a stop. I looked to my right again. The horde was a big one; maybe over a thousand strong. There were only a hundred or so fighting men and women in the caravan, so this was going to be all-hands on deck. I picked little Gabe up and stood him on the bench beside me.

  “I need you to stay here, son. Hug your mommy and keep her safe while I’m gone, okay?”

  He nodded solemnly. “Okay, Dada.”

  I kissed his cheek and gave him one last hug. Then he turned and jumped onto his mother’s lap. She caught him and wrestled him upright.

  “Gabe, you shouldn’t jump on Mommy,” she said. “You don’t want to hurt your little sister, do you?”

  Gabriel looked down at the rounded swell of his mother’s stomach. “No. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay, sweetie. Just be careful.”

  I leaned over and kissed Allison on the cheek. It was supposed to be just a quick one, but before I could move away, she caught my face with a gloved hand and pulled me back in. Her lips pressed hard against mine and I felt a warm, trembling shock down low in my stomach. After not nearly long enough, she broke the kiss and locked me in place with her bright amber eyes.

  “Be careful. Don’t take any chances.”

  I kissed her again and wished I had time for much more. “I won’t. Be back soon.”

  Snow crunched under my boots as I walked to the back of the wagon and retrieved my rifle, aiming stick, and a heavy wooden box full of loaded magazines. The rifle was a standard issue M-16 I had modified into a sniper carbine through the addition of a 20-inch free-floated stainless-steel barrel, custom muzzle brake, aluminum handguard, match-grade trigger, and a Nightforce scope. I had also swapped out the cheap government-issue fixed stock for an extremely expensive—and nearly impossible to find these days—precision adjustable stock. The bullets I carried were 77 grain Sierra Match Kings chambered in 5.56 NATO. The ammo, combined with the heavily modified rifle, gave me the ability to hit a six-inch target at three hundred yards in good weathe
r. In bad weather, I could still drop a ghoul at two hundred yards, visibility permitting. At a hundred yards or less, I felt like I was cheating.

  A stream of people, all dressed in heavy winter clothing and carrying Army issue M-4 carbines, had departed the wagons and were gathering on a low ridge where Lincoln Great Hawk waited on horseback. He sat up straight in the saddle, a pair of binoculars held to his face, a lever action rifle in a long scabbard just behind him. He had let his hair grow long, and an eagle feather dangled from a braid next to his face. Between the tooled leather, the long hair, and the ancient tomahawk stuck through his belt, he looked like he belonged in a Frederic Remington painting.

  Several other riders from the perimeter of the wagon train converged on his position. The other riders were Isaac Cole, Derrick Holland, and Ethan Thompson, all recently discharged from the Army and promptly hired by Great Hawk Private Security.

  “Wagons one through six,” Great Hawk shouted, “you are with me. Wagons seven through twelve, go with Cole. Thirteen through eighteen, you are with Thompson. The rest of you are with Holland. You will be runners. Go to supply wagon number four and start bringing ammunition here to the ridge. Holland, assign four people to reload magazines. The rest of you be ready to relieve shooters on the firing line.”

  Holland glared at the Hawk. “What the fuck?” he complained, his South Boston accent as grating as ever. “Why am I on shit detail?”

  The Hawk looked at him with the kind of patient, stoic tolerance one might reserve for a chronically stubborn child. “Because it is your turn. Remember?”

  Holland crinkled his brow, looked to one side, and blinked. “Oh. Right.”

  Holland rode away, calling out orders as he went. Cole and Thompson looked at each other and tried not to laugh. The Hawk waved a hand at them.

  “Go on. Get your people into position.”

  “You heard the man,” Cole bellowed, his deep baritone cutting through the roar of the wind. “Let’s get to it.”

  Thompson was more muted in his methods. He climbed down from his horse and led it by the reins to where the fighters assigned to him had gathered. He talked to them in a calm, friendly voice. But despite his gentle manner, the people he spoke to paid attention and did as he said. In their place, I would have too. Ethan is a hell of a nice guy, but there is an edge of steel in him a person would have to be pretty stupid not to pick up on. And not many stupid people survived the Outbreak.