Angling the bow of the boat, I used the force of the current to run us right into shallow water and onto the bank. Part of the campground was under water, but the upper end was clear. When we came to a stop, Sanders and Snake jumped ashore and tied us off to a large walnut tree. We were in a small inlet formed by the floodwater. The boat wouldn't be pulled back out into the current without our help.
"Lock and load," I said, readying my own weapon. "Turn on your headsets and do a quick radio check."
In seconds, we had all powered up our radios and checked in. With everything working, I motioned for us to fan out and cover the area. Gunny and First Sergeant Gregory took the left side while McDonald and Sanders covered the right. Spec-4 and I took the middle with Heather Monroe right on our heels. Ramirez and Snake were going to remain with the boat and guard it, just in case.
Once everyone was in position, we headed off towards the main building. The area was eerily quiet, which in and of itself was unnerving. The area had wide open expanses where campers would come in the summertime and spend their vacation enjoying the river and the woods. I could see the campers and the tents, but there were no people. Not even the mobile dead. The only sound was the wind in the trees and the rusty creaking of a metal hinge on the door that swung in the breeze. The door was ripped partially off of its hinges and hanging by the top one.
"Welcome to the Ho-Humm Campground," I said softly, as I craned my neck to get a good look around.
"Odd name," commented Spec-4.
"This used to be a great place," I muttered, my eyes still shifting back and forth.
"Well, now it looks like it's been through a fucking war," said Sanders. "Whatever happened here, it was nasty."
Activating the tactical light beneath my weapon, I began scanning the interior of the building through the open door. Inside, everything was in a shambles. There was blood everywhere, in dried puddles and in splashes across the walls. From the amount of blood, there had to have been quite a few survivors barricaded inside when the Stalkers forced their way inside.
Sweeping back and forth, I could see no sign of anything living. There were bloody handprints on the walls and floor and smears where something had been dragged through the blood. In my mind, I could see someone on their stomach, being dragged away by the Stalkers as they fought to stop them by grabbing for anything they could. It was a disturbing image.
"How many Stalkers do you think it took to do this?" asked Heather.
"It depends," I answered, still looking around. "I don't see any bullet holes, so I doubt they were armed. If they weren't armed, it wouldn't have taken more than a few Stalkers to do this. From the look of the place, I'd guess a small group."
"Of survivors or of the dead?" asked Spec-4.
"Both," I said, turning my head.
Something on the floor near the back of the room had caught my attention. It was a lump of cloth or something similar. I moved towards it, as if drawn to it. I had a bad feeling that I knew what it was before I got there. As I crossed the room and stood over it, I could clearly see the pitiful item illuminated in the center of my light. I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. I felt sick and angry at the same time. I felt guilty for not finding this place sooner. Maybe soon enough to have prevented it.
"What is it?" asked Heather, standing silhouetted in the doorway.
Kneeling down over it, I felt tears well up in the corners of my eyes. There, covered in blood, lay a torn and battered teddy bear. On the light colored fur of the stomach was a mark. In dried blood was a perfect handprint of a child. It was impossible to tell if it was a boy or a girl, but they couldn't have been older than five or six.
I didn't answer her question. I couldn't. I just stood up and wiped my eyes on the back of my hand before turning around. On the wall, next to the door was what looked like writing on the white sheetrock. I passed my light over the writing and began reading. It looked like someone had been counting the days with tick marks from a black marker. It seemed to indicate that they had made it almost three weeks before they were all killed. Beneath the daily count was a warning written in dark, bold letters.
It read like a journal with dates and notes next to it.
04/04 - 21 Survivors
04/05 - No dead today
04/06 - Small group takes our guns and goes hunting.
04/07 - Group did not return.
04/08 - New type of dead seen last night. They came in the night and left before daylight.
04/09 - They are hunting us. Group still has not returned. There are 16 of us now.
04/10 - They are smarter than the others. We have fortified this building.
04/11 - We are running out of food. We cannot stay here.
04/12 - If we stay quiet, they don't try to get inside.
It skipped a few days before beginning again in a different hand.
04/16 - Small group got caught outside. 11 of us now.
04/18 - Hungry. No food.
04/22 - Found supplies in nearby building. We are ok for now.
04/24 - Light attracts them. They know we're here. They are breaking inside.
There weren't any more entries. They had all been dead for well over a month. Their last entry was while we were still at the Underground. It was a small comfort but did nothing for my guilty feeling for not having saved them. I couldn't explain why it bothered me so badly. We've found where survivors had been wiped out before. Maybe it was the teddy bear that did it. Whatever it was, I didn't want to be here anymore.
"We need to leave," I said, heading out the door.
As we headed back towards the boat, I could see clouds gathering in the distance. There was flashes of lightning in the dark masses and I knew we would be heading into a storm. From the look of it, we would be in for some severe weather. I had no desire to get caught out in the open during a tornado. Although it was still sunny here, it looked like we would be heading right into it. By nightfall, we'd be hitting the leading edge of the storm. That wasn't good news.
We were back on the boat and moving in minutes, leaving the accursed place behind us. Although we were rapidly putting it behind us, I had the distinct feeling that I would be visiting it again in my dreams. I would have nightmares about this place. About the people that we couldn't save and a child that somehow I knew was a small girl. A tiny blonde who left a bloody handprint on a teddy bear as the Stalkers tore her apart.
We rode in silence, watching the scenery pass us by. We passed the campground at Mountain Creek, but the main building was burnt out. There wasn't anything we could fortify left standing. Instead of searching the area, we kept going down river. Hours passed and we only saw the occasional house. Most of them had already been ravaged by either the living or the dead.
The sun was getting low in the sky and I was beginning to smell rain when we saw the house on top of the bluff. Not only did it look to be intact, but the windows were boarded up. Someone had already fortified the place. If there were any survivors left there, we could find shelter and maybe allies against the dead. Right now, we desperately needed both.
The storm was getting closer and I realized just how dark it was beneath the oncoming clouds. I could feel the moisture in the air and smell it in the wind that had picked up in the last few minutes. The storm was coming and I couldn't help but wonder, was it dark enough under the clouds to bring out the Stalkers? If it was, we had bigger problems. The clock was ticking.
We moored the boat and started grabbing our gear. We couldn't leave anything behind, just in case. There was a road that led up to the house on the bluff from an area that looked like it had been a garden. It would be a steep climb carrying all that equipment. We would be cutting it close, if we made it at all.
"Grab everything and let's move!" I snapped, shouldering a bag and grabbing the handle of a second.
Everyone grabbed their share of the load and we headed out. Only Cal Sanders didn't look overloaded, despite the fact that he was carrying more weight than any of the r
est of us. Heather was having trouble walking with all the gear she was carrying. Gunny noticed her struggling and took one of her bags, slinging it across his chest. McDonald and Ramirez were watching our flanks, keeping their hands free to use weapons.
Thunder rumbled through the sky as we crossed the open area next to the garden. It struck me that the garden was well-tended, with healthy rows of vegetables and recently weeded paths. There was definitely someone alive in that house on top of the bluff. I just hoped that they were friendly.
By the time we reached the bottom of the bluff, the wind was picking up drastically. The leaves in the treetops were turning and I knew it was about to rain. We were almost out of time. We still had to climb the hill and reach the house before we would be safe. I just hoped that I was wrong about the dead coming with the storm.
"Move it, people!" I barked. "We're running out of time!"
I could see the strain was already showing on everyone's faces. Sweat was pouring in rivers down my neck and into my armor. The cool wind felt good on my skin, but it only served as a reminder of how little time we had left before the storm hit. I could only hope that the dead weren't coming with it.
As if to answer me, thunder rumbled over us and I could see the flash from the lightning. The rumble indicated that it had been very close. I heard the soft patter of sprinkles hitting the leaves of the surrounding trees. The sky was growing rapidly darker by the minute and the storm was nearly upon us.
"Come on!" I shouted. "Move it!"
I could feel the urgency boiling in my veins and the air on my skin felt electric. I grabbed Heather by the backpack and pushed her faster up the hill. We were pushing as hard as we could, but the steep hill along with the loose gravel made it a painfully slow climb.
"Movement near the river," hissed Ramirez. "Looks like two Stalkers coming out of the trees on the far side of the water."
"Have they seen us?" I asked, not pausing to turn around.
"Not yet," said Ramirez. "Looks like they're chasing a deer."
"Keep moving," I snapped to the group, my breath starting to burn in my chest.
Spec-4 turned around to check on the group and stepped on a large rock, twisting her ankle and knocking her to the ground. She cried out sharply as she fell, but didn't drop her weapon. She did grab her ankle with her free hand.
"I've got her," I snapped, leaning down to check on her. "Keep going!"
Everyone kept moving as I stopped to assess the situation.
"Can you walk?" I asked, grabbing her by the arm.
"Do I have a choice?" she replied, grabbing my shoulder.
"Yeah," I replied, helping her to her feet. "Move or feed the zombies."
"Some choice," she said, slipping her arm across my shoulders. "I think I'll just go with you."
"Good call," I answered, accepting her weight and slipping my arm around her waist.
"Let's move it!" called Sanders.
McDonald moved up beside us and let his weapon fall across his chest. Then he took Spec-4's other arm and slipped it around his neck. I nodded my appreciation and we started after the others. Spec-4 winced in pain every time she tried to put weight on her foot. Reluctantly, she lifted it and just put weight on her good foot. If the situation hadn't been so critical, it would have been funny. In the midst of all this death, it was a sprained ankle that might do us in.
The others reached the top of the bluff before we did and we lost sight of them. To our right, I could see a Stalker approaching from the darkness of the trees. It was beginning to rain and we were still twenty yards from the top of the hill. It would be on us before we reached the top.
Since I couldn't use my rifle accurately with only one hand, I let it drop to hang around my neck. Then I did the only thing I could with just my right hand free. I reached down and drew the old Colt, cocking it as I brought it up. It wasn't silenced, but our shot at stealth was gone. Now it was reach the house or die trying.
The Stalker had closed to within ten yards before I got a clear shot. Raising the old pistol, I sighted in rapidly and gently squeezed the trigger. The thunderous boom echoed around the valley as the big .45 round slammed into the forehead of the creature before us. The impact blew the creature's skull apart and kicked it over backwards, to roll down the embankment.
I didn't have time to celebrate, as two more emerged from the trees and headed for us. I shot the second one before it closed within twenty yards but the third one started weaving as it came towards us, making it difficult to hit. I managed to hit it once in the shoulder, but it didn't even seem to slow it down.
I shot it in the face at a range of less than three yards as it leapt at us. It's momentum carried it onto its back and it skidded to a stop right at our feet. It was also my last round in the Colt. I couldn't reload one handed, so I put the old girl back into her holster and we kept moving. I could hear movement in the trees around us, but we could only keep moving and hope we made it.
We finally reached the top and headed for the house. The others were already on the porch and knocking furiously on the door. Cal Sanders and Ramirez were standing at the back with their weapons up, covering us as we headed for them as quickly as we could.
Inch by painful inch, we pushed ourselves to reach the house. Sanders and Ramirez started engaging targets and I didn't want to know how close they were behind us. If they were shooting right past us, that meant they were too damned close for comfort. Sanders let his empty M-4 drop to his chest and grabbed his M-249. The SAW roared to life as the big infantryman engaged targets behind me with a fully-automatic burst from his weapon.
Just as we reached the steps of the porch, the door opened to reveal an elderly man who looked to be in his eighties, with wrinkled skin and snow-white hair. He was wearing bib overalls and holding a double barrel shotgun. From his features, I guessed that he was Native American.
"Get inside!" he said, motioning for everyone to come in.
Sanders' SAW fell silent as we all crowded our way into the house. Sanders was the last one through the door and the old man immediately started dropping heavy wooden bars into place to lock the door. Although it was dark inside, there was a dim light coming from the kitchen area. It looked like a small dynamo-powered lantern.
Once the last of the heavy bars was in place, we glanced around to check the group. We had all made it. We were all breathing heavily and sweat glistened off of our faces and exposed skin. We all began to shrug out of our packs and set down bags, relieving our loads. McDonald and I helped Spec-4 into a nearby chair.
All eyes were on Gunny as he struggled to catch his breath and had his right hand pressed tightly to his chest. I went to him and eased him into another chair. His eyes were wide as he fought for a breath like a landed fish. His pulse was racing and all color had drained out of his face.
"Gunny?" I said, shining my flashlight into his eyes.
"I'm…," he stammered, struggling for a breath.
"It's alright," I said, gently. "Just breathe. We made it."
"I'm…," he persisted, wheezing.
His eyes were locked on mine and I could see that they were starting to lose focus.
"I'm too old for this shit," he managed to hiss as he took one last deep, shuddering breath.
Then he was still. His eyes rolled back into their sockets and he went completely limp. Quickly, I put my fingers to his neck to find his pulse, but there wasn't one.
"No, goddamnit!" I snapped, and pulled him onto the floor so I could begin chest compressions.
Heather dropped to his side, across from me and began opening his armor. Once we had cleared everything down to his t-shirt, I began CPR.
"Come on, you son-of-a-bitch," I choked. "You can't die on me."
I continued the compression series and paused as Heather gave him a breath. I watched his chest rise and fall, but there was still no response. I resumed the compressions while Ramirez fumbled through his pack for his first-aid kit.
"I've got nothing," shouted
Ramirez. "Nothing for a heart attack."
Outside, I could hear the storm raging as a torrential downpour unleashed its fury against the roof and walls of the house. Time seemed to slow down as each second seemed to stretch out in my perception. I could hear a mournful howling that I thought was the wind, or maybe the calling of the Stalkers.
When Spec-4 pulled my face against her shoulder, I realized that it was me. I was shrieking to the heavens. The full fury of the storm couldn't hold a candle to the pain inside my heart and the raging grief that flowed through my veins. Before me, on the ground was the body of someone I respected more than anyone else in the world. There was nothing more I could do for him. The realization was breaking my heart.
Gunnery Sergeant (Ret.) Myron Thaddeus Graves, USMC, was gone.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sanctuary
"Wit thou well that I will not live long after thy days."
- Sir Thomas Malory
The storm raged outside the house, but I was barely aware of it. I was lost in my misery, holding the head of an old friend. Gunny was gone. It was ironic that he didn't fall to the dead that walked all around us. At least that was a small comfort. It meant that I wouldn't have to shoot a friend.
After a long period of silence, I left Gunny and joined the others in the living room. I noticed that all of the windows in the house were covered over with heavy boards. It was a strong enough job that the Stalkers couldn't pry them loose. The living room was lit with the eerie blue light of a dynamo-powered lantern.
Everyone was sitting in silence, listening intently at the storm. The old man that had let us into his home was seated in an old rocking chair with the shotgun laying across his knees. He held up one knobby finger and held it to his lips, indicating that I should remain quiet. I froze in place and listened to the noise coming from outside. Very faintly, I could hear the soft footfalls of someone or something moving on the deck.
As I listened, I could hear the occasional light scrape of the creatures claws on one of the boards. They were out there in the storm. I couldn't tell how many there were, but there had to be several from the different locations that I heard the sounds. For whatever reason, they weren't in a frenzy trying to smash their way inside.
Ragnarok Rising: The Crossing (The Ragnarok Rising Saga) Page 36