by Z. A. Recht
“Grab us each a pistol, five magazines apiece now that we’ve got ammo. Get moving—I want you geared and ready to move out in five.”
“Hoo-ah, Sergeant Major,” nodded Krueger, spinning neatly on a heel and jogging over to where a pair of soldiers were laying out Stiles’ haul. He selected a nine-millimeter for the Sergeant Major, then halted. There, on the table, was a pristine chromed .357 magnum revolver. His eyes widened, then flicked left and right to see if anyone was watching. Grinning, he quickly holstered the weapon—a tight fit in a holster designed for a Beretta—and pocketed the speed loaders that had already been laid out.
“Finally, a bit of good luck,” Krueger commented, strolling over to his webgear laying next to his dew-dampened bedroll. He clicked it across his chest, double-checked his remaining equipment, and ran back up to Thomas with a full minute to spare. He handed the Beretta, butt-first, to the Sergeant Major, whose eyes were locked on the bright and massive long-barreled magnum the Private carried.
“Nice weapon choice,” growled Thomas. “Have fun reloading it in a firefight.”
“Don’t expect to get shot at, Sergeant,” quipped Krueger. “Plan on doing some shooting, though—and this will be a fun thing to do that shooting with.”
Thomas turned away and headed off on the trail to hide the half-smile on his face. The world was falling to shit—but some people still managed to find a bit of pleasure in life.
The pair didn’t have very far to hike, as it turned out. There were several small roads that led out of Hyattsburg in almost every direction. They traversed an open field, grass comfortably low and crunchy underfoot in the cold day. Beyond the field lay a stretch of trees, sloping down through a gulley, and the two men wound their way around the trunks, stepping slowly and carefully between fallen branches and dried leaves. Through the trees they could already see the next road.
They slid down the incline that had been carved out of the gulley to make room for the road. Both dropped into crouches in the drainage ditch and jogged lightly toward town, moving out of sight around a distant bend.
Back at the truck, Sherman got busy marshaling the remainder of the survivors for the foray into Hyattsburg.
“Alright, empty the back of that vehicle to make some room!” Sherman ordered, gesturing at the truck. “Anybody who isn’t getting ready to head back, settle in. We’ll be gone until just after nightfall, if all goes to plan.”
The handful of unarmed refugees had already scouted out a nice thicket off the edge of the road to hunker down in while the soldiers raided the town. It would afford them at least some protection from detection if an infected were to wander by. It wasn’t likely. So far they hadn’t seen so much as a single shambler once they’d left the town—but that was not a guarantee one wouldn’t mosey past.
“Sir, those of us that are armed are ready to move,” reported one of the soldiers.
“Better see if we can get Stiles on his feet,” Sherman said, looking in Rebecca’s direction. “Get him into the truck. He can ride until it’s time.”
“He’ll be woozy,” she warned. When Sherman only nodded in reply, she shrugged and shook the soldier’s shoulder. Stiles waved an arm and batted her hand away, wrinkling his forehead in annoyance without awakening. She tried again, and this time he caught her forearm in a lightning-fast move, eyes blinking open.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
“General’s orders. He wants you in the truck,” Rebecca said, jerking a thumb over her shoulder at Frank. “Can I have my arm back now?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Sorry,” Stiles said, letting go of her wrist. He leaned heavily against the tree behind him as he unsteadily rose to his feet.
“Need a hand?” Rebecca asked.
“I’m fine.”
Stiles limped over to the off-white utility truck, still using his rifle as a crutch. He grimaced as he put weight on his wounded leg, and looked back over his shoulder at the medic.
“Not complaining about the morphine, but you got anything that’s more of a local?” he asked, trying to smirk.
Rebecca didn’t reply.
“Alright, saddle up!” barked Sherman, waving an arm over his head. He wanted everyone who was going into Hyattsburg to be in position well before dusk. It was still a good twelve hours before the sun would fall below the horizon, but that would only give them more time to scout the town before moving in.
The truck left the camp first, driven by one of the soldiers with another riding shotgun and Stiles sitting up in the back. It would move to the town’s edge and park to conserve what little fuel that was left. The rest of the men shouldered or holstered their weapons and moved out after it, walking in twin columns on either side of the road.
Sherman knew that he was being forced once again to risk the lives of many to only possibly save the lives of a few. It was true soldier’s work, the kind not every person was cut out for in life. He knew of plenty of officers who froze up when presented with such decisions—not that he blamed them. A person had to have very thick skin and a lot of rationalizing power to cope with the knowledge that their plan or call was the direct impetus behind death—on whichever side. Sherman thought of it simply: to make an omelet, one must break eggs. It sounded callous and shallow when he said it to himself, but he always reminded his conscience that it was as true as any other common-sense adage.
It was a curious human condition that led people to be willing to die to save the life of another. How many times had he read in the newspaper of events like a lost hiker in the mountains? Dozens, if not hundreds, would rush out of their homes and jobs to search for the victim, possibly becoming lost themselves. Often, he’d heard of civilians—people not often credited with much honor by soldiers—who lost ten, twelve, fifteen people in a search effort for just one lost person.
Yes, if you want to do a rescue—or make an omelet—you break some eggs.
He’d be damned if he let his people—even the civvie refugees—stay stuck in a godforsaken movie theater to slowly starve to death when he had a chance to make things different.
And Stiles had given them a fighting chance once they finally left Hyattsburg. The town’s name left a sour taste in Sherman’s mouth even when thinking it silently. He’d lost less people here than he had at Suez or Sharm el-Sheikh, but it felt more personal now. Then, there had been hundreds of them. In Hyattsburg, maybe fifty. And now, less than a dozen—unless by some miracle they located Mbutu’s missing truck. They still hadn’t gotten so much as a peep out of the radio from him. Sherman hoped for the best—but deep down he believed if they hadn’t come by yet, chances were they hadn’t made it.
Sherman was tossing his attack plan for raiding what remained in the sporting goods store when the civilian Jack came up alongside him. He was one of those left unarmed, but he’d jogged up silently, leaving the rest of the unarmed folk in their hideaway.
“General,” he said, nodding.
Sherman looked over, still caught up in thought, and nodded in reply. He then performed a near-perfect double-take, grimacing when he glanced down at Jack’s bare belt.
“You have no weapon. Get back with the others,” Sherman said, a bit more aggressively than he’d meant to. Jack held up a hand and made a peace sign, grinning lopsidedly.
“Don’t really like sitting, Sherm,” he said. Sherman might once have gotten more angry at the civilian shortening his last name, but it seemed almost endearing from the friendly, sensible fellow. “I’d like to do something. I heard your little speech yesterday about volunteering—well, my hands are empty. Think maybe you could use them carrying things at that store while someone armed keeps an eye on my back.”
“Don’t know,” Sherman said, shrugging. “It’s always best to rely on yourself in close-quarters like we’ll be facing in town. If you go around a corner first—”
“I know, I know—it’s a risk. But the soldiers here take the same risk every time they go out. I don’t mind. Gotta earn my keep.”
; Sherman looked the man up and down, pretending to evaluate him. Truthfully, the moment Jack made his proposal he’d decided to bring him along—but it was good to make folks sweat now and then. It kept them sharp.
“Alright,” Frank said slowly. “But like I said, don’t go around any corners first. Let my boys clear the way.”
“It’s a deal. So, what do they call you at home, General?”
“Frank. Feel free to use that. I’m getting a little tired of being addressed by rank after all these years.”
“You got it, Frank. Thanks for letting me come along. Much appreciated. Don’t worry—I won’t get in your way. I’ll leave you to your thoughts,” Jack said, performing a slight bow with his head and slowing his stride.
Sherman pulled away from him, fighting the temptation to grin again. Almost every day the people he was with found some small way to impress him. It was strange—before Morningstar had decimated the so-called civilized world, he’d been disgusted on an almost daily basis with people in general. Now, those he knew had earned nothing less than total respect from him. Odd how tragedy, death, and violence brought out the honor in people. They were finally seeing what a lot of fighting men had already learned—that life was a lot less complicated than people make it out to be. In the end, it’s down to whether you have to die—and if you do, the method in which you check out.
He had a grim feeling at least some of those with him on the road would have to make that decision soon.
Edge of Hyattsburg
2134 hrs_
Night had fallen a few hours before. Sherman had noticed at dusk that the street lights were still operational, as well as a few of the automated floods that kicked on as night approached. He’d confirmed with a soldier who hailed from the northwest that the power supply came from a rural town that relied on the plant for most of their jobs—chances were decent they were still alive and kicking. The infection seemed to spread from the edge of the West coast and the edge of the East coast inland in both directions. It was an odd pattern, but Jack, the civilian welder, offered a rather intriguing and plausible theory:
“Well, it’s cheaper to fly on shorter flights, right? So wouldn’t it be shorter to fly into la Guardia or BWI or Dulles than it would be to fly to Oklahoma? Bet half the infected that started the Morningstar plague here came in as cheap and quick as they could when they ran outta Africa back in the early days.”
Sherman agreed. It might not be a one-hundred percent accurate theory, but he figured Jack had gotten at least part of the solution down.
For now, though, their worries were not global—they were quite local, and very personal.
With the addition of the streetlamps’ glow, Sherman had delayed the operation by a few hours to allow them to work in total darkness rather than the half-illumination of twilight. It was easier to shoot in the dark than at dusk. Not to mention half the carriers who heard them might not see them—and their escape route when they were done would be well-lit by the yellow incandescence of streetlamps. For once, Lady Luck—or God or Karma—seemed to give them a small break.
The soldiers’ raiding party had crouched on the edge of the town in thick, young vine growth. Though there were little leaves on the vines in the dead of winter, they still wound around each other so thickly it was easy to remain hidden behind them. Once Sherman was satisfied the town was quiet and quite settled for the night, he’d raised a hand and signaled for the men to move out. All of them knew the location of the store as well as the theater, and all had been well-briefed on their primary and secondary objectives.
Sherman played back the briefing in his head as the men silently padded in towards Hyattsburg, double-checking himself to make sure he hadn’t forgotten a thing—just in case.
“Men, let’s review,” he had said as the soldiers kneeled in a school-circle around him after a quick half-ration snack two hours earlier. “Here’s a short rundown: primary objectives. You have two. The first is the procurement of additional weapons and chow. Both of these items are of equal importance. Use your common sense. Recover equal loads of both, and rotate what you grab in each trip to the storeroom Stiles found. One trip, weapons and ammo. Next trip, food. I don’t want to hear about anyone calling dibs on the firearms, either. They’ll be distributed based on your individual backgrounds and talents. Second primary objective—though some of us will head back with what we recover from the store, the rest of us will relocate to the alley behind the theater and prepare to launch a rescue on our men stuck inside. Remember—those of you who are coming—silence is key. Absolutely nothing must distract the infected and their dead cohorts from Stiles, our runner. Wait until the main doors are clear before sweeping out into the street. Secondary objective—only one, this time, and this is it. Triple check everything. And I mean it.”
Sherman remembered pacing back and forth, shaking his head as he’d spoken, remembering past fatalities that could have been prevented if they’d been more cautious.
“What I’m trying to say is—remember the fight on the destroyer? If we’d checked every last refugee for the slightest cut, and done a bit more quarantining, we wouldn’t have lost good men in battle. Think an alley is clear? Triple check. Think your weapon is ready to fire? Triple check. Think that corner is safe? Triple check the fucking thing.”
Sherman had stopped again, cheeks actually darkening to what might have been considered a blush. He almost never swore, especially around those under his command.
“Other than that, you know the drill. Watch your buddy’s back. Play smart. Play safe. And maybe, with a bit of luck, we’ll all make it out of this dead zone and get to see the Rocky Mountains before the month’s out. Hell, maybe we’ll camp a couple days. Raid a store for some beer, maybe. You’ll have earned it if you pull off this op tonight.”
At this, the soldiers had sensed the review was over. As one—but quietly and subdued—they chorused: “Hoo-ah!”
Sherman remembered nodding with satisfaction.
“Tonight it’s game time, men. Get ready.”
As the soldiers stepped over the cracked curb, they settled into their professional habits, fanning out, holding weapons at the ready with barrels pointing so they overlapped each others’ fields of fire. They moved to opposite sides of the street, using the stoops, steps, corners, and lampposts as pieces of cover. None of them so much as brushed against any circle of light cast from the few automated bulbs—they stuck to the shadows.
Jack and Sherman stuck together in the middle of the wide street, the nearest soldier a good ten or fifteen yards away. It was actually the safest place to be. To get to the two, a carrier of Morningstar would have to break through the columns on either side. Sherman had his pistol drawn, the safety off, held at the ready. He was no hypocrite—he had triple-checked the weapon himself.
They almost made it to the sporting goods store without incident. Sherman looked ahead, and made out the sign denoting the laundromat where Stiles said he’d been bitten. Signs of battle were still apparent, even though it had happened almost a full day before. The corpses were tough to miss—five of them, in and around the storefront. All had been dispatched with quick shots to the head, except for a corpse wearing a work uniform, lying face-up on the sidewalk. His skull looked as if it had been half-smashed in by a rifle butt. His nametag read DON. Sherman guessed this was the one that had gotten Stiles. The soldier had probably instinctively smashed the reanimated carrier with his Winchester a few times before getting enough of his wits back to put a bullet through its eye socket. Sherman grimaced when he saw Don’s sliced throat, again flashing back to Stiles’ full account of his foray. The smallest slip-up, the tiniest piece of carelessness—that was all it took. That was all it ever took.
The rest of the corpses seemed to form a line leading towards the edge of town. Sherman’s mind’s eye saw the scene: Stiles retreating on his wounded calf, firing as he hopped backwards, carriers running out of the darkness at him. Must have been hell.
The sto
re had been left in good shape by Stiles. He’d closed the door and set an ashtray upright in front of it. It was still standing—that told Sherman nothing infected (and brainless) had opened the swinging door since the scout had left.
Good thinking, soldier.
“Right column!” Sherman stage whispered, getting a column’s attention. Five sets of eyes flicked over to him. He hand signaled for them to move in on the store. They worked silently and efficiently, shining lights in the windows, scanning the rows and alleys, and then turned, crouching and forming a small, hemispherical defensive perimeter around the main entrance. “Left column!”
His second set of hand signals sent the left-side column jogging towards the entrance. The only sound, besides Sherman’s whispers, was that of rubber boot soles on black pavement. The left hand column filed quickly into the store, spreading out, scanning the rows again. They cleared the store in less than a minute. A corporal appeared in the swinging door’s frame and signaled the all-clear to Sherman.
“Alright,” Sherman whispered once he’d gotten to the doorway. “Get to work! You men inside—load up your packs! Quickly, now! Two of you out here, get in that storeroom and pass the gear up the steps! Go, go! Work fast!”
They knew what to do. They could have done it without Sherman’s orders—but his presence definitely boosted their confidence. They didn’t take more than five minutes to load six ALICE packs to the brim with ammunition and cans of food. It was enough ammo for months, but only enough old rations for a few weeks. Three, maybe four, tops, if managed properly. Sherman was pleased enough. They’d scrounge fresh food where they could to save the rations. The tins wouldn’t go bad until Jesus decided his beard wasn’t fashionable and shaved it off—or when Hell froze over. Both were equally unlikely.
Sherman, still standing in the open doorway as the squad finished, nodded simply. He directed the soldiers with full packs back they way they’d come. They’d be near useless when they had to run after the rescue—best to get them out and secure their new gear. They nodded, one or two whispering a furtive hoo-ah, and dog-trotted down the street, moving as fast as they could without making too much noise. Sherman had confidence they’d make it if they didn’t draw attention to themselves.