I ran my hand lovingly over the old Colt. Just having it with me was somehow reassuring. I knew how much it had meant to Sheriff Hawkins and I understood why. It was a real beauty of a pistol and it was dead-on accurate. Although it held less than half the ammo of the automatics, it was still a great weapon to have. Its accuracy made up for the low ammo count. I rarely missed with it, but I was going to have to work on my reloading speed.
As if to mock me, I had nearly two hundred rounds of the Winchester Supreme Elite 12 gauge ammo and another 300 rounds in 5.56mm. With no shotgun or assault rifle, it was all but useless. I also had four 40mm fragmentation rounds left for the M-203. I might still be able to use them without the launcher, but it would be tricky. Those might be useful for setting traps, but I doubted they would be good for anything else. After all, I really didn't want to blow my hand off or anything.
I had one combat knife and a multi-tool in my pack. My interceptor vest was in good shape, but my backpack was ruined. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing and it would have to do for now. If I was going to make it all the way back to the jail, I was going to have to do some serious scavenging. I’d need more ammo and a long gun of some sort. I’d also need transportation. This was a rural area with a lot of hunters, so my chances of finding weapons were good. I also had the keys to my wife’s blazer, assuming it had any gas left in it.
My body was one massive bruise from all of the punishment I’d put it through over the last few days. That was a testament to how much damage I had been taking, since I don’t bruise easily. The vest had stopped the worst of it but even with a trauma plate, bullets leave bruises. I felt like about ten miles of bad road. I was mobile, but not anywhere near the top of my game. I needed to rest for a while before I pressed my luck any further. I was already walking the ragged edge of exhaustion.
I could see flashes of memory each time I touched a bruise. The memory of how I got them was indelibly etched into my brain. One was from the biker in the strip club, two from the assholes at the Golden Corral. The big one in the middle of my back was from the ambush behind the supercenter. Each one hurt and only served as a reminder that I was still in this fight. When it didn't hurt anymore, I could face the All-father with my head held high.
I opened two more cans of stew for Odin and opened a big can of ravioli for myself. I ate it slowly as I sat in the cabin and pondered my next move. Then inspiration hit me. I headed for the Captain’s cabin and opened the cabinet above the bed. Inside was a gift set that had been given to me by the soldiers in my unit when I’d left the Army. I’d been saving it for a very special occasion but since the world was ending, I decided that surviving was special enough.
Inside the wooden gift box was a crystal decanter of Bushmills and two glasses. I was going to use it to toast my twentieth anniversary with Karen, but I wasn’t holding my breath about living that long. It was only a year away, but I wasn’t feeling particularly optimistic. The box also contained an engraved silver hip flask with the emblem of a fist holding a lightning bolt.
It said, “W.E. “Wylie” Grant. Best of luck, asshole” on one side and “I am the King of Battle, and the eyes of Death! I am a Fister!” on the other side.
I had to laugh at the memories that evoked. I’d been really close to those guys. Of the ten of us, two had transferred to the Rangers and died later that same year in Mogadishu during the Blackhawk Down Incident. One had died in the line of duty as a cop in Dallas, Texas in 2002. Three more died in an ambush in Afghanistan in 2007. Two died in ‘08 in Iraq when their Humvee hit an I.E.D. The last one died in Lavonia, Michigan in 2010 when a sixteen-year-old kid shot him for seventeen dollars in his wallet. I was the only one left. I decided the best thing to do was to drink a toast to them. I poured myself a generous glass of the aged Bushmills and leaned back on my bed.
“To you, assholes,” I whispered, closing my eyes. “Maybe you're the lucky ones.”
I drained my glass and closed my eyes. I thought of them all, one by one. I saw their smiles and heard them laugh. Soon other faces joined theirs. There was Alex Parker, Amy Gillespie, Erin Campbell, Mike Prescott, Mike Andrews and Jake Haggard. All of them were officers from my crew that had fallen to the dead. Then there were the three Fairgrove officers we lost in the ambush at the restaurant. I dreamed about them all, that night. They were the honored dead, one and all. I hoped that I’d see them all again, one day. In whatever place we ended up.
11 April
I awoke just before dawn. There was just enough light to see by as I sat up. I felt better than I figured I would. In fact, I felt damned good. I headed back through the main cabin and out onto the deck. Odin was fast asleep on one of the couches and didn’t stir as I passed. He was on his back with his feet in the air, snoring contentedly. I noticed that the stew was all gone. Odin rarely met a meal he didn’t like.
The chill of the morning air was refreshing and woke me up better than any cup of coffee ever had. I stood at the rail and watched the glowing line on the horizon that promised the sunrise. It looked to be a beautiful one. The orange disk began to crest the horizon and was almost blinding to look at. It was a morning worthy of song. I closed my eyes, leaned my head back and extended both of my arms out to my sides. I let the cool are embrace me as I greeted the new day. For good or for ill, I was ready to meet it.
Then I checked my clothes. They were cold but dry, and I quickly got dressed. They smelled faintly of soap, but I didn’t mind. I’m sure they smelled better than I did. With my boots back on and my pants properly bloused, I felt like a new man. After a quick weapons check, I holstered my pistols. Like me, they were battered but not broken.
I rummaged briefly through the little refrigerator and found what I was looking for, a small can of coffee. I lit the propane stove and sat the little metal coffee pot on the counter. It took four water bottles to fill the pot. Then I scooped coffee grounds into the strainer and sat it on the burner. It was an old-style percolator pot, but it made good coffee. I’d had it for years and taken it camping hundreds of times. The base of it was scorched black from years of campfires.
While the coffee percolated, I decided to try to patch my backpack. I didn’t have a replacement for it, so I had to find a way to fix it. I started by sewing shut the gaping hole left by the chunk of shrapnel, and then applied a generous layer of super glue to the stitches on both sides of the cut. Once that was dry, I applied several strips of black duct tape to the site. It wasn’t pretty, but it would hold long enough for me to find a replacement. Well, hopefully it would.
I set it aside and reached for the coffee pot. I poured a cup of the dark black liquid into a ceramic mug and sat the pot back on the burner. It was foul tasting and strong, but it did the trick. I’ve never quite got the hang of making a good cup of coffee. That was fine with me. Just being alive to drink it was a victory in itself. It would give me energy and keep me alert. That was good enough.
After my second cup, I took out my binoculars and headed out onto the deck. There was enough light in the sky to see clearly now, so I began scanning the shoreline in both directions. The dock where Caitríona was usually tied up was clear of zombies, so far as I could see. The shoreline looked clear, as well. A plan began to form in my mind. With any luck, I would be able to sneak ashore and scavenge for supplies. I might even make it back to the boat without being seen. Yeah, sure.
“They must have all followed the explosion,” I mumbled. “Let’s hope they stay there.”
Odin just cocked his head to the side and sat down next to me. I knew he couldn’t really understand me or answer me for that matter, but I didn’t have anyone else to talk to. It kept me sane, for the most part. Unless you count the nagging part of my brain that kept telling me he actually understood me. Then sane might not be the right choice of words.
“Looks like we’re going ashore, buddy.”
His ears perked up and he wagged his tail a few times, thumping solidly against the wooden deck. I scratched his ea
rs and started formulating my plan. I knew we’d have to be extremely careful. There was no back-up to be had out here. That meant that we were completely on our own. I had to be cautious about starting the engine on the pontoon boat, because the noise would certainly attract the zombies. I really didn’t want that.
Stealth was going to be our best weapon for this little foray into the danger zone. That meant that I couldn’t use the engines and rowing a pontoon boat was probably out of the question. My options were quickly running out. The thought of swimming was quickly dismissed when I remembered the zombies I had seen on the debris beneath the pontoon boat. I knew that there would be zombies concealed in the murky water. It would also be impossible to swim while carrying equipment. That only left the life raft I kept in Caitríona’s emergency locker.
It was big enough to hold eight people without difficulty. It was rated to hold a considerable amount of weight, but I really didn't want to push it too far. I bought it online a few years ago, just in case Caitríona were to sink. It was U.S. Navy surplus and in solid condition. It was the same type of inflatable raft that the US Navy SEALS used. What I wouldn't give for a team of those, right then.
I inspected it every season to make sure it was still functional, but I hadn’t checked it out yet this year. I hoped it was still intact. I also hoped it was thick enough to withstand Odin’s claws. His claws had shredded things before. The kids' slip 'n' slide, several footballs and basketballs, a half a dozen swimming pool toys and one of my wife's inflatable Halloween yard decorations. Don't tell her it was the dog. I convinced her it was some kids from the neighborhood.
With a pull of the cord, the raft quickly inflated. It took me by surprise and nearly knocked me off into the water. I’d never opened it on the boat before. I’d always checked it on dry land. I had to grab the rail for support as the raft settled to the deck. I looked back at it with a smile, seeing that it was intact and holding air. Odin looked at it like a giant chew-toy, but I kept him back with a hand on his collar.
“See, boy,” I said, “nothing to worry about.”
For his part, Odin just looked at me quizzically and sneezed. Taking that as a dismissal, I turned back to the raft. I threaded a rope through one of the mooring rings and tied it off. Then I lowered it into the water beside the Caitríona. Once it was upright in the water, I tied off the other end to the railing. Content that the line was secure, I picked up the binoculars and started sweeping the shoreline. Inflating the raft had made a lot of noise and I wanted to make certain that it hadn’t attracted any unwanted visitors. Fortunately, it hadn’t.
“OK, boy,” I said. “Time to go a Viking[1].”
Chapter Two
Gone a Viking
“Am fear nach glèidh na h-airm san t-sìth, cha bhi iad aige 'n àm a' chogaidh.”
“He that keeps not his arms in time of peace will have none in time of war.”
- Celtic Proverb
I emptied out my backpack and put the contents on the galley table. I was going to need all the cargo space I could muster. All I was planning on taking with me were weapons, ammo and some water. Anything more than that would only add to the weight. This was a scavenging trip, not a combat run. Besides that, my best chance for pulling this off lay in stealth. I was going to be searching for anything I could use, but I really was hoping to find weapons.
I knew searching my sister-in-law’s house for weapons was a lost cause. She hated guns and insisted I never carry one in her house. I always had to lock my pistol in the truck or on the boat. Funny, I never heard her complain when I was using them to fight the zombies. I guess the zombies weren’t cute enough for her to worry about their rights. Or maybe it was because Bambi never tried to eat her. I guess I wasn't a knuckle-dragging caveman, anymore. Funny how things suddenly changed when the world went to shit.
I slipped back into my interceptor vest and equipment belt, then checked the pistols. Both of the Beretta’s were loaded and ready to go. I attached both of their holsters to the interceptor. Then I checked the Army Colt. The old girl was loaded and ready. The weight of it on my right hip was comforting as I slid it back into the holster. I decided to leave the .357 on the boat. It only had the bullets that were in it and then it was useless as anything but a club. Better to leave it behind as a backup weapon. My combat knife went back into my boot.
I left all the ammo that was still in boxes, too. That left me eight loaded magazines for the 9mm and the loaded loops on the belt for the Colt. If I needed more ammo than that, I had bigger problems than I could handle. I was hoping I wouldn’t even have to fire a shot. When the shooting began, I'd better be running for the boat or things would get extremely interesting in a very short amount of time.
I briefly considered leaving Odin on the boat. I hated to risk taking him and getting him hurt or lost. There was also the risk that he’d bark and give away my position, but I just couldn’t leave him behind. Partly because I hated to think of him starving out here by himself if something were to happen to me. Mostly though, I just figured he’d jump off the boat and follow me anyway.
It was almost as if Odin sensed what I was thinking and took the decision out of my hands. He padded over to the edge and jumped off into the raft. It was settled. Odin was coming along for the trip and that was that. I put two short paddles into the raft and climbed down into it. Odin found himself a comfortable spot near the front and lay down with his head on the gunwales so he could see where we were going. I took off my pack and sat it behind him, then settled into my seat near the back of the raft.
I took the opportunity to scan the area one more time with the binoculars. Satisfied that we were still alone in the immediate area, I sat them down and picked up a paddle. Slowly, I began paddling towards shore. Noise was now my enemy. I reached the dock a few minutes later and cautiously peered over the edge. There was still nothing there. I tied off the mooring line with a slipknot so I could pull it quickly if I had to return in a hurry. Odin was the first to scramble up onto the dock. It wasn’t a big leap for him and he made it easily. I followed behind him, albeit a bit more clumsily.
Once my footing was secure, I pulled out one of the Berettas and brought it up into a two handed grip with my trigger finger extended along the slide. I walked slowly so that my tactical boots made no sound on the wooden dock. I swept wide and to the left so that I could see into the small boathouse. The door was padlocked and appeared intact. That was good, since there was a tank inside with about a hundred gallons of fuel in it for the boats.
Satisfied that nothing was going to jump out and grab me, I headed towards shore. I kept glancing into the water, half expecting to see figures walking around in the murky water. Fortunately, I didn’t see any. Every creak of the boards and slight movement from the water almost made me jump. The air was electric with the tension I felt, knowing that any sound could be bringing a horde down on us.
Odin trotted along the dock and headed for shore, his nails clicking softly on the boards. Once he was ashore, Odin did what most dogs do. He sniffed around and found a spot to mark his territory. I left him to his task and moved quietly to the hedgerow that separated my sister-in-law’s yard from the shoreline. I could clearly see the house and the driveway where my wife’s blazer and my sister-in-law’s Escalade were parked. What I didn’t see were zombies.
I leaned out cautiously and looked to my left down the hedgerow, and froze. About thirty yards away was a single Shambler, shuffling slowly away from me. My first instinct was to snap a shot and put one in the back of its head. Unfortunately, that would make entirely too much noise and defeat the purpose of a stealth supply run. I needed to take it out silently.
I did another quick look around and determined that this was the only zombie in the area. Pulling the combat knife from my boot, I motioned for Odin to stay and started moving off towards the Shambler as quietly as I could. I had closed within six feet of it when I heard Odin start to growl behind me.
“Oh shit,” I whispered,
and leapt forward.
The Shambler stopped and tilted its head, listening to the sound. That’s when I struck. I grabbed a handful of the putrid thing’s hair with my left hand and yanked. The zombie stumbled and the head snapped over, exposing the right side of the neck. Without hesitation, I plunged the blade into the flesh at an upward angle. It slid home beneath the skull and just to the right of the spine. Once it sank to the hilt, I gave it a sharp twist and yanked the blade free with a sickening, wet, slurping sound.
Foul smelling black blood gushed from the wound and dripped from the blade. I could also see pieces of the brain on the blade and in the wound. The Shambler fell like a puppet with the strings cut, and didn’t make a sound other than the impact on the grass. Then I heard Odin growl, again. If you've ever owned a mastiff, you'd know that meant trouble. They rarely growl unless they see or hear something they perceive as danger. From the tone of his growl, I knew we had serious trouble.
I spun around in time to see two more zombies emerge from the hedge at the end of the yard. Odin was growling at them and backing towards me. I kept my fingers crossed that neither of them were Shriekers as I ran towards Odin. The first one emerged from the hedges and let out a gurgling hiss, foul black blood oozing from its lipless mouth. Its gaze shifted from Odin to me and it launched itself right at me. The speed was terrifying.
“Sprinter!” my brain screamed.
I didn’t have time for any other thoughts because it covered the distance to me in three long strides. It came at me heedless of anything other than making me into a meal. The sheer speed of the creature was terrifying. The distance between us vanished in the span of a few heartbeats. Reacting instinctively, I drove the knife up and toward its face. We crashed into one another and went to the ground in a heap. I was punching and shoving at it before we landed.
The Reckoning - 02 Page 2