Surviving the Dead (Novel): The Hellbreakers

by James N. Cook

  It was the second-to-last thing he ever said.

  His hostage grabbed the arm protruding over his shoulder, leaned back, and pulled down with all his strength. Stumpy’s arm snapped at the elbow, bending ninety degrees in the wrong direction. He let out an ululating howl, which was cut off when the back of a vengeful head smashed into his mouth, shattering the front teeth. Stumpy fell over backward, hands over his ruined gums, his face a mask of agony. He dropped his gun in the process.

  “You motherfucker,” his hostage said as he retrieved Stumpy’s weapon and pointed it his face.

  “Wait!”

  “Fuck you.”

  The gun was a revolver. From the volume of the shots, I guessed it was something heavy caliber. Maybe a .44 magnum. Whatever the case, it blew open Stumpy’s head like an overripe melon.

  By this point, Cary had ducked down behind the couch and was trying to rip her pistol free of its holster. Crop-ear had regained his feet and looked around the corner. When he didn’t see Hahn, he turned in my direction.

  During the fight, I had not been idle. When the kid threw himself down the stairs, I took up my axe. When the black woman bit Buzzard’s arm, I vaulted the couch. When Stumpy wasted his last breath begging for his life, I was already running for the staircase. Throughout all of this, I had used the adrenalin rush of combat to push my limbs as fast as they could go.

  It wasn’t enough.

  I was only halfway to Crop-ear when he noticed me. His eyes narrowed. The gun hand began to swivel. I did the only thing I could: I stopped, raised both arms over my head, and hurled the axe.

  It flipped over twice in the air. Crop-ear’s eyes went wide and he ducked. I had to give it to him, the man was fast. The haft of the axe clunked off his shoulder, the blade turned to the side, and the weapon ricocheted harmlessly off the handrail.

  But by the time Crop-ear looked up, I was already on top of him.

  One hand smacked the wrist holding the pistol. If you strike the inside of a person’s wrist hard enough, it shocks the muscles and tendons in the forearms. The shock causes those muscles to momentarily spasm, thereby dislodging whatever the intended victim happens to be holding in their hand. In this case, Crop-ear’s pistol went flying across the room.

  I wasted no time. With my next step, I ducked a shoulder, rammed it into Crop-ear’s waist, lifted up, and carried him three running steps before slamming him into the ground. I heard his head bounce off the hardwood floor and a breathless wheeze as the air went out of his lungs.

  In less than a second, I transitioned into the mount, put a hand on his throat, and chambered a punch. My fist came down once, twice, three times. The blows crushed Crop-ear’s nose and knocked out his front teeth. Despite the damage I’d done and the agony on my enemy’s face, something felt wrong. The same alarm that had gone off when I saw the shard of glass was ringing again.

  In an instant, two things happened.

  The first was me realizing my head was still swimming from heat exhaustion, and I was running on pure adrenalin. The second was that I could not see Crop-ear’s hands. So when a sharp, lancing pain ripped into my side, I knew I had made a critical error.

  There was only one explanation for what had happened: I had been stabbed. Looking down at Crop-ear, I saw him grinning through a mouthful of blood.

  “Die, you fuck,” he hissed.

  I knew I probably would. I knew I had screwed up royally and was paying the price for it. But, by God, I had never given up a fight in my life, and I was not about to start. My face went hot, my teeth gritted together, and a guttural roar tore its way out of my throat.

  I gripped the hand holding the knife and squeezed. The grin on Crop-ear’s face faltered. I roared again and began to squeeze. Bones bent and started to give. Crop-ear ground his teeth and tried to pull his hand away, but it went nowhere. He, like many of my past opponents, was discovering one of the secrets of grappling.

  If you do it long enough, you develop an iron grip. And I had done it for nearly twenty years.

  Slowly, fighting the pain with everything I had, I pulled Crop-ear’s hand away from my rib-cage. The blade slid free, but cut deeper into my flesh as it did so. I turned Crop-ear’s hand until his wrist was stressed to the breaking point, then I gave it a sharp twist. There was a sound like thin carrots breaking inside a towel, and Crop-ear howled in pain. The knife clattered to the floor. My right hand found his throat again. I raised my left fist and swung as hard as I could.

  CRUNCH

  Again. Again. Again. With each blow, I felt something give under my knuckles. His bones, not mine.

  And then the adrenalin wore off.

  I stared downward. Crop-ear was unconscious. His face was a bleeding mess, the nose broken so badly it didn’t look human. Blood had splattered everywhere. Crop-ear’s eyes were grotesquely swollen, a sure sign of broken orbital sockets.

  “Good enough,” I muttered.

  Then I fell over and passed out.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I woke up in a bright, white place.

  There was not much to see. Just the light and a soft wind blowing over my skin. I tried to move and found my arms worked. I reached a hand up to my chest and felt something thin and slightly rough covering me.

  Is this what it’s like to be dead? It’s not so bad.

  I breathed in. The air was cool and clean and smelled like…

  Disinfectant?

  I tried to sit up, but a sharp, hot pain in my left ribcage stopped me. There was a moment of struggle when I tried to push through it before deciding it was not worth it and let my head rest against the pillow.

  Pillow…

  I was in a bed. I looked to my right and saw a white plastic wall, some kind of thin vinyl. To my left I saw Cary. She was sitting in a chair with one leg crossed over the other. Her clothes were gone, replaced with hospital scrubs. She noticed me stirring and looked up. A smile spread across her face, and I knew in that moment I loved her. Not liked her, not cared about her, not a schoolboy infatuation. I loved her.

  “There you are,” she said, and stood up. There was a gentle swishing sound as she walked over.

  “Where am I?”

  A long exhale. “Unfortunately, still in Phoenix.”

  I looked around. The cobwebs cleared and I realized we were in some kind of pressurized tent. I was reminded of the emergency CDC hospitals I had seen on the news during the Outbreak.

  “What is this place?”

  Cary’s hand stroked my forehead. “Medical tent. One of four. You were lucky. You’ve got this one to yourself.”

  “Why does the militia need four medical tents?”

  The smile faded. “Our team wasn’t the only one attacked,” she said quietly.

  I thought about that for a few seconds. “Who were they? The people we fought.”

  “According to the one you captured, they call themselves the Storm Road Tribe. Some kind of widespread group of marauders and thieves. Racketeers of the worst kind.”

  “Wait, the one I captured?”

  “Yeah, you remember, right? The guy you beat the living hell out of? You should see his face. Looks like he went ten rounds with a ball-peen hammer.”

  I remembered. I looked down and saw my hands were wrapped. A few flexes. Open, shut. Open, shut. A squeeze, a small dose of pain. Bruised pretty good, but nothing broken.

  “How bad am I hurt?”

  The hand found my cheek and traced a line down my jaw. My beard made a quiet rustling sound. Cary’s thumb ran gently over my lips. I reached a hand up, grabbed her fingers, and kissed her palm.

  “The knife got stuck in one of your ribs. You’re lucky. Half an inch one way or the other and it would have pierced your lung.”

  “So nothing too serious?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You’re an idiot.”

  I grinned and pulled on her arm. She showed me a smile full of dimples and white teeth and shining brown eyes.

  “What are you doing?”


  “Come here.”

  “Your hurt, stupid.”

  I pulled harder. She was not a very big woman, and I’m pretty strong. I got my hands under her arms, lifted and pulled her on top of me. She let out an excited giggle.

  “Stop, someone might come in.”

  “Like I care.”

  I pulled her closer. Her legs straddled my hips and her eyes got a hungry look in them. She could feel I was happy to see her. One of my hands found the soft skin of her back while the other entwined in her hair and pulled her face toward mine. She did not resist. Our lips met, then our tongues, and I felt her relax and mold herself to me. The shapely hips started moving in little circles.

  “You’re going to get me in trouble,” she whispered. Our faces were less than an inch apart.

  “They’ll forgive you.”

  She kissed me again. Things progressed from there. I discovered that even when injured, I am still capable of surprisingly athletic performances. Thankfully, no one walked in. Which is unfortunate for them, because they would have gotten quite a show. Cary looks spectacular naked.

  *****

  Two days later, the militia’s doctor—a diminutive Irish fellow named O’Rourke with a thick Boston accent and hard little green eyes—discharged me from the medical tent. I was not altogether happy about it. The tent was air conditioned, and I had not felt AC in so long I had forgotten how delightful it was. I told Cary it really was one of the greatest achievements of mankind. Right up there with automobiles and lubricated condoms. She slapped me on the arm and called me a dumbass.

  The damage to my hands was minor. Bruises, nothing more. I had twelve stitches in my side, and the doctor warned me against any kind of hard physical activity for at least a week. I thanked him and smirked at Cary when I said it. She blushed a little, no doubt remembering the hard physical activities we had enjoyed together on my little cot.

  The squad was happy to see me. All of my weapons and gear were there, including the ammo I had picked up and my beloved axe. I looked it over first, concerned that the abuse it had suffered during the fighting had damaged it. There were a few scuffs on the hammer and around the band encircling the haft, but the most important part—the blade—was unharmed.

  After catching up with everyone and eating dinner and watching the sun go down over the mountains to the north, I sat in a chair and stared into the little fire Lowe had used to cook our dinner. The man really knew his way around a stew pot. Dinner had been delicious. I was seriously thinking about dipping into my supply of precious coffee when I heard boots crunching the sand, walking toward me. When I looked over my shoulder I saw it was Lieutenant John Terrence, the man whose head I had dinged with my axe.

  I gathered my feet underneath me and sat forward, ready to spring. Lieutenant Terrence stopped in front of me. He put his hands in his pockets and stared into the fire.

  “Long couple of days, huh?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  He looked at me. The firelight made shadows flicker over his broad, thick-featured face. “Heard you been laid up.”

  I patted my side. “Caught a shiv.”

  A nod. “Yeah. I know. I’ve been interrogating the guy you captured for the last two days.”

  I blinked and shifted in my seat. “I’m not sure it’s fair to say I captured him.”

  “Whatever. You beat him senseless. Made it easy to haul him in.”

  I looked around as if Crop-ear was hiding somewhere. “Where is he now?”

  “Don’t worry about that. He’s not a threat to anyone.”

  The fire crackled and something popped loudly and sent a flare of sparks over the barren ground. The night was quickly darkening. “You here for a reason, Lieutenant?”

  “Father Cortez would like to speak with you.”

  I let out a long breath and stood up. “Things kind of went south the last time you said that to me.”

  Lt. Terrence turned to face me. His face was blank, but the eyes were not angry. If anything, they were nervous. Now that he was standing in the light, I could make out the fading line of a scar at his close-shaven hairline. Whoever had stitched it had done a fine job.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “You have to understand, my job can get pretty stressful sometimes. I’m an impatient guy anyway, and, well, I guess you just caught me on a bad day.”

  With that, he held out a hand. I stared at it a second, then looked him in the eyes.

  “I’m cool if you’re cool.”

  A small smile. “I’m cool.”

  I shook the hand. “Fair enough.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  Terrence led me to where Father Cortez waited for me. He was at the edge of the encampment near a small fire dug into the ground. There were two chairs. He sat in one of them sipping something hot and fragrant. A small camp table stood a few feet from the fire with a stainless steel kettle on it. There was an empty metal cup next to it.

  “Can you find your way back?” Terrence asked as he stopped. I stopped with him.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. See you later.” The big man turned and walked back toward the officer’s tents.

  “Thank you for coming to see me so late,” Cortez said. I turned to look at him. He had stood up and was pouring black liquid from the kettle into the empty cup. The smell drifted to me on a light breeze and made my mouth water.

  “No problem, padre.”

  I walked forward, accepted the cup with a word of thanks, and sat down. Cortez did the same. I sipped the coffee. It was hot, bitter, and brewed strong, just the way I liked it. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scent of it. There was something about being outdoors at night near an open fire that always made things taste better. Especially coffee.

  “How are you feeling?” Cortez asked.

  I took another sip. “I’ve been worse. The wound is healing just fine. Should be back in action in no time.”

  “That is good to hear. Sergeant Hahn tells me you acquitted yourself quite well. She says you were very courageous.”

  A gentle laugh came up from my chest and creased my face on the way out. “Courageous? Sure, why not.”

  Cortez looked amused. “Do you have another name for it?”

  “Yeah. Scared shitless and fighting for my life.”

  The little priest laughed. It was a pleasant laugh, gentle and genuine and possessed of a profound dignity, much like the man it came from.

  “Courage takes many forms, my friend. Bravery cannot exist in the absence of fear.”

  “Can’t say I disagree.”

  We were quiet a few minutes. The desert wind blew a little stronger, cooling the coffee in my hands and making it easier to drink. There was a scent on the breeze, light and metallic and otherworldly, like the memory of a distant place where there is only frost and cold and a low pale sun in a washed-out sky. I thought about the time of year, what month I was in, and realized summer would be over soon. Fall was coming, and after that, the bitter chill of winter.

  “There is trouble ahead, I’m afraid,” Cortez said at last.

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Marauders.”

  I stared at the fire. I thought about the signs of habitation I had seen and heard on the other side of the valley. I thought about the men that attacked me and Cary and the people we were with. I thought about what Terrence had said about interrogating the prisoner and him being part of something called the Storm Road Tribe. I wondered what any of this had to do with me. As far as I knew, my job was to kill ghouls and hunt for salvage. I was not a soldier, and had no desire to be one.

  “Why are you telling me this, Esteban?”

  He turned his head. The dim light softened his features, the high cheekbones, the bearded jaw, the wide, honest eyes. I thought to myself, There sits is a good man. The kind of man I can follow.

  “I will need your help to find out more about these people.”

  “My help? What can I do?”

  A smile. “I think yo
u can do very much, Mr. Alex.”

  My eyes shifted to the northern sky. The sun was gone now, the world having spun away from it and moved on toward another day. A few bright stars shined and fluttered against the endless void.

  “You want to train me. Is that it?”

  He nodded. “We have people who can do it.”

  I finished my coffee and stood up. Looked at the priest again. Thought about the last six years, the isolation, the loneliness, the fear. Waking up alone and going to sleep alone and not knowing for sure if someday I was going to die alone. I decided I did not want to be alone anymore. And I was not afraid to die, so long as in the endeavor, I got a chance to really live.

  I said, “When do we start?”

  “I’ll send word when it’s time.”

  “Okay. So…what do I do for now?”

  Cortez stood and put a hand on my shoulder. “For now, you go back to your squad. Get some rest. At first light, the riders will go out and draw another horde. You have heard the fighting over the last two days, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “There are many more infected to kill. I think we will be here many weeks. Perhaps well into the winter. If the threat arrayed against us is as bad as I think, it will not be long before you and a few others are sent to deal with it. But for now, I need you ready to fight. Can you do that?”

  “Sure. Fighting is kind of my thing.”

  Cortez laughed again. “So it would seem. Goodnight, my friend. I will see you soon.”

  The little priest sat down and poured himself more coffee and stared off into the distance. I looked at the city to the east, its outline a thin shadow in the desert’s emptiness. There was a lot of danger there, but also a lot of opportunity. I turned and started walking back toward camp. I needed to get some sleep.

  The battle for Phoenix was far from over.

  Also by James N. Cook

  Surviving the Dead series:

  No Easy Hope

  This Shattered Land

  Warrior Within

  Fire in Winter