Survivors

by Z. A. Recht

  “Looks like we’ll have to go around again,” Hal murmured to Commander Harris, grimacing, with his hands planted on his hips. “If there’s trouble down the road, we better do what we can to avoid it.”

  Stiles shook his head and leaned hard against a rusting signpost, sliding down to a sitting position. “Not again, guys. I can’t take this. My leg feels like it’s on fire. Can’t we at least get close enough to see what the problem is? Maybe it’s nothing . . . just natural.”

  “What, and lose two more of us, like last time?” asked a sailor named Rico. He was a Hispanic man in his young twenties, wearing faded jeans and a patched brown button-up shirt. Months earlier, he would have been decked out in white: a proper sailor’s uniform. “To hell with that. I say we go around.”

  “Not to mention that where there’s a town, and a line of carriers waiting to chow down on us,” added Hillyard, another sailor who still wore much of his military gear. The clothing had been abandoned along the way, replaced by practical civilian wear, but he still wore the wide olive drab pistol belt, plastic canteen, and standard-issue holster and pistol about his waist.

  “That’d be our luck,” said Wendell, a petty officer first class and the second-highest-ranking military man in the group. He was small in stature, with the look of a person who smiled often, and short brown hair still growing in from his military buzz.

  “You Navy bastards,” muttered Stiles, wincing as he moved his leg to keep it from stiffening up. “If this was an Army gig, we’d have that town cleared in half an hour.”

  “If this was an Army gig, we’d all be reading our maps upside down,” said Rico, earning chuckles.

  Quartermaster Third Class Allen, who read maps for a living, started in on Stiles. “You bet your ass! I saw an Army grunt last year, holding a map on its side and wondering what the Z meant on the compass rose. . .”

  Hal listened to the banter and scratched at his stubbly chin. It had been days since he’d found the time or inclination to shave. He shifted on his feet, and the light weight of his pack struck him with a new thought.

  “—and then he rolled it into a tube, and—”

  “You know what, though?” Hal said, interrupting Allen’s diatribe. “We only have enough food to make it another week, tops, on foot. Sooner or later we’ll have to hit a town and see if there’s anything we can scavenge. Until things settle down some more, looting’s our best bet of staying alive. Shit, I can’t believe I’m even saying all this. Do you all realize that a few months ago I was in the South Pacific, lying in a hammock and drinking cold beer? I’m fucking retired. A guy can’t even enjoy his old age in all of this wanton, nasty . . .”

  The men in the retinue tuned out the rest of Hal’s rant. He had a tendency to go on for hours about his would’ve-could’ves. No one minded hearing his stories about beautiful half-naked island girls or his tales of fresh, highly alcoholic fruit punches, but they knew better than to interrupt him when he started off on a negative tangent.

  Commander Harris, until recently the executive officer of the USS Ramage, now the de facto leader of the group of survivors around him, took a chance and cut Hal off.

  “Hal’s right. We need to resupply. We’re most of the way to Omaha, and I’ll be damned if we don’t make it because we were too hungry to keep hoofing it. We’ll scout the town, and if it looks right, we’ll see what we can get.”

  This left dour faces all around, save for Stiles, who seemed pleased that he would at least be able to walk on even pavement a while longer. He grunted as he lifted himself from his sitting position, jostling the signpost he’d leaned his back against. The top came loose and swung down, hanging by a single hinge.

  Harris cocked his head to the side to read the gently swinging sign.

  “Abraham,” he read. “Two miles. Well, Abraham, ready or not, here we come. All right, shipmates, check your weapons and ammo. We don’t know what we’re in for, but we’re going to damn well be ready for it.”

  The nine remaining crewmen of the USS Ramage wearily went about their business, checking bootlaces, tucking in religious medallions that might jingle, one or two saying a quick, silent prayer.

  “All right, Harris,” Hal said, folding his arms and keeping a bit of distance between himself and the military men. “This is your show. What’s our angle?”

  He looked on as Harris considered the landscape. They had passed a bridge about a mile back where the concrete had been pocked by ricochets, and found two abandoned vehicles. Near those were a few scattered bodies. They looked to have been shot to death rather than killed by infection (or the infected). Hal knew that made Harris nervous. He was learning to deal with the infected, but there was no defense from an enemy sniper. A sharpshooter at range could kill a man before his companions even heard the shot.

  Ahead of the group lay a gently curving road, sloping slightly downward and flanked on both sides by evergreens. Even this far inland, the foliage of the Rockies could take root. Harris drew his binoculars up to his eyes and scanned the distance. After a minute of this, he passed the binocs to Hal.

  The pines filtered out after about a quarter of a mile. Beyond that, open fields. A pile of chalky debris littered one of them. Harris wondered about it, making a note to check it carefully as they passed, and panned onward. At the far end of the fields, he spotted the town.

  Even at this distance, he could see the medieval-looking gates that served as a main entrance. Harris quirked a grin behind the binoculars. The townsfolk were apparently a resourceful bunch. They’d used upended shipping containers as guard towers, improving them with roofs, ladders, and barbed wire. The gates themselves seemed to be made out of wrought iron, welded in spots to further strengthen it.

  The front of the town was not, however, where the smoke was coming from. The black funnel issued forth from the rear of the town, and through the binoculars Harris could dimly make out ant-sized people forming an ant-sized bucket brigade. He couldn’t be sure, but he also thought he saw a few men standing by with rifles.

  “They’re in trouble,” Harris said, speaking when Hal lowered the binoculars. The others looked over at him expectantly. “I don’t know what to make of it, though. I saw some armed men down there. They might all be hostile, for all we know. They might shoot us on sight. Opinions?”

  “They might also be friendly and in need of a few extra hands to handle the fire, sir,” said Allen.

  “Either way, we still need food,” chimed Hal.

  “Let’s go for it,” said Stiles, leaning heavily on his good leg.

  Harris considered. The group had been on foot most of the way eastward. Finding working vehicles was becoming harder and harder. Occasionally they’d get lucky and find one that would take them a few dozen miles before running out of gas or giving in to damage. Consequently, they had become quite adept at road marching, but there was no way they’d make it much farther without replenishing their supplies.

  With a nod, he waved the men forward, and they put all that hard march experience to work, making good time from the hill to the open fields in front of the town.

  It didn’t take Harris’s binoculars to make out the figures on the guard towers staring at the ragtag group upon its approach. That caused hackles to rise, but when no rifles came out, Harris and the others did their best to relax and remain placid, not making any threatening movements. As they drew nearer, they could make out more details.

  The town’s defenses were still under construction, Hal noted. Or, perhaps, they were being repaired. He couldn’t tell. Either way, it was impressive. They’d found a use for their now-useless cars, adding them to the barriers flanking the main gates. On the roofs of these cars stood riflemen, though each with his weapon shouldered. The men in the guard towers were similarly armed, but inactive. The threat was implicit, however; one hostile move, and the new arrivals would come under a hail of fire.

  “Afternoon,” Hal said, stepping past Harris and waving up at the guard towers, ignoring the
annoyed look Harris shot at him. “My friends and I were heading east and noticed you were having a little trouble with fire. Anything we can do?”

  “Not unless you brought a fire engine and some hoses with you,” said one of the men in the guard tower. He had a strong look about him, and wore, half-hidden under an open button-down shirt, a bronze badge of office. “We’ve got it under control. Just a little excitement at the town clinic. Look, if you folks are after food or shelter, we’ll do what we can, but we can’t afford to be too trusting these days. You understand.”

  “Well, we are running a little low on vittles ourselves,” said Hal, thumbing his hat back to get a better look up at the man. “We’d be willing to trade for ’em, of course. Wouldn’t be asking for freebies. Though I have to get a discount. I’m a retired serviceman, see. Some things shouldn’t change, plague or no plague,” Hal said, flashing a grin.

  The man in the guard tower chuckled. “Name’s Keaton. Sheriff of Abraham.”

  “I’m Hal Dorne. Retired mechanic, professional ne’er-do-well, and sort of between careers at the moment,” Hal said, nodding. “I should be sitting on an island getting drunk and sunburned right now, but it looks like things got a little twisted.”

  “Well, Hal, like I said, we’re open to doing what we can for folks, but we’ve learned a few tough lessons about trust—so if I let you in, you’ll have to surrender your weapons at the police station,” Keaton said.

  The man in the tower next to Keaton leaned over and whispered something frantically.

  “I know that, but it doesn’t mean they’ll be anything like Sherman, does it?” Keaton said back, at normal volume.

  Hal caught Sherman’s name, but brushed it off, certain he’d misheard the Sheriff, or thinking perhaps that he was referring to another individual.

  Harris spoke up, drawing the group’s attention.

  “How about it, men? It’s a risk. If we give up our weapons, we’re all theirs,” Harris said.

  “Nah,” said Rico, shaking his head. “Nah, man. Nah, check it out—if these boys were going to wreck on us, they would have done it by now. I think we can trust them, man.”

  Allen and the deckhands nodded in agreement.

  “Yeah,” nodded Stiles, wiping sweat from his forehead. “I say we trust them.”

  Harris pursed his lips, sighed, and turned to the guard towers. “All right. We agree! We’ll surrender our weapons.”

  “Good to hear it!” Keaton shouted down. He turned, speaking to someone out of sight behind the barricades. “Wes, get the gates open! We’ve got visitors!” Keaton turned back to the road-weary men. “Welcome to Abraham. Enjoy your stay.”

  The gates opened outward with a series of mighty creaks, so heavy was their construction that no amount of grease could ever really ease them up. One civilian appeared behind each gate, ratcheting them outward until they stood wide. They were latched open, and the civilians retreated inside their town. Hal noted the mechanism they’d installed on the gate, which only allowed it to swing one way without a release on the inside being held in.

  Hal and Stiles approached warily as the gate swung shut behind them, closing with a clang. Keaton had climbed down from the guard tower and met them with another man; this one was shorter, thinner, with a long, hooked nose and the appearance of a sharp-eyed hawk.

  “Gentlemen, this is my deputy, Wes,” Keaton said, introducing the newcomer.

  “True pleasure, gents,” said Hal, shaking both men’s hands. “These are my friends—I guess you could call most of them that—right here. This is Harris. Rico, Hillyard, and Allen and the four behind them are Navy working men—not like Harris, the pencil-pusher,” said Hal, earning an eye-roll from Harris, “and this is Mark Stiles, formerly of the Army.”

  Keaton and Wes exchanged unreadable glances.

  “What was that for?” asked Allen, picking up on the civilians’ brief exchange. “You got something to say about the Navy?”

  “Or the Army?” chimed in Stiles, grinning.

  “Nah,” said Wes, “we’ve just been getting more soldiers through these parts than we’re used to, that’s all. Before Morningstar, all we ever got were farmers. Now we’ve got sailors and mechanics and generals—”

  “Generals?” asked Hal and Harris simultaneously. Stiles perked up as well, looking intently at the Sheriff’s deputy.

  “What do you mean, generals?” pressed Harris, speaking quickly. “Who’d you see?”

  “Whoa, it’s nothing,” said Wes, backing up a few steps, misreading Harris’s sudden curiosity as hostility. “It’s just that we had a few guys come through here a while back. One of them said he was a general, that’s all.”

  “What did he say his name was?” asked Hal.

  “Uh, Sherman. General Sherman,” Wes said.

  The little group of survivors let up a whoop. “They’re alive!” Hal said. “I can’t believe they made it this far! Hell, they pulled it off!”

  The exclamations were forthcoming for several long moments, with speculation about the well-being of Sherman’s group flying back and forth. When the excited chatter began to die down, Keaton seized a chance and spoke up.

  “How do you fellows know Sherman? He didn’t mention he had anyone on the way behind him,” Keaton said.

  “Oh, he wouldn’t have known we were coming,” Hal said, waving it off as he unholstered his sidearm and passed it to Wes, who had warily begun the collection of firearms from the newcomers. “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ll have to hear it,” said Keaton, “but now that you’re in and we’re sure you’re not here for trouble, I have to go make sure the clinic gets taken care of. Most of the fire’s out, but it’s still smoldering in parts.”

  “Someone knock a lantern over?” asked Allen, ducking the sling of his MP-5 as he handed it to Wes.

  “No, someone left a few common household cleaning supplies near one smart asshole, who seized the opportunity,” Keaton shrugged. “Just like you, it’s a long story. Anyway, I’ll catch up with you later. You mentioned you needed food. The only place we have that does that kind of bartering is Eileen’s. It’s a pub just down the street, on the right, before you get to the town green. They have some stock up for trade.”

  “A pub? Does it have beer?” Rico called out to Keaton’s swiftly retreating back.

  “It sure does—if you want to call it that,” replied Keaton, speaking over his shoulder.

  “What about pussy?” Allen sang out to no response. Wendell slapped the back of his head.

  But that decided matters for the survivors. The sailors quickly volunteered to go and barter for food—and whatever passed for beer in Abraham. Harris followed behind them, muttering about keeping them in line. The truth of the matter was that he likely didn’t mind the idea of a brew himself.

  This left Hal and Stiles standing with Wes near Abraham’s main gate. The poor deputy looked half-buried under confiscated firearms. He stumbled over to a nearby lawn cart and carefully dumped the weapons into the rear end, tucking the barrel of an errant rifle into the compartment.

  Wes turned with a slowly reddening face and, looking at Stiles, stumbled over his words.

  “Uh, I kind of need to—ah, your rifle—I need to bring it to the station,” he managed, pointing at the Winchester that Stiles was using for a crutch.

  Stiles looked down at it, blinked, and stared back at the deputy. “I kind of depend on it. Got something else I can use in the meantime?”

  “Well, not on me. But wait,” Wes said, snapping his fingers. “We’ll get you an actual crutch at the clinic. I was going to go by there after I took care of the weapons anyway. You can ride with me in the cart until then.”

  “Works for me,” Stiles said, limping over to the cart. He slid into the passenger seat and tucked his rifle in with the other weapons, giving it a tender pat as he did so. He had become quite attached to it over the past several weeks—almost literally.

  “Don’t think you’re leaving me he
re,” Hal said, pushing Stiles over. “Make room—I’m coming, too.”

  “Aren’t you the one who’s always bitching about how you should be lounging around and drinking?” Stiles pointed out. “I would have thought you’d be the first to run off to the pub. Never know when we’ll see another one.”

  “Oh, I can, and I will, I assure you,” Hal said with an easy grin. “But I’d kind of like to see this operation Abraham’s running first. Seems like a good opportunity for a tour.”

  Wes took the driver’s seat. The cart was slow but ran with a quiet electric whine, moving efficiently along the mostly deserted streets. The citizens, it seemed, were congregated near the other end of town, distracted by or helping with the clinic fire.

  “So,” said Wes, glancing at Stiles, “if you don’t mind my asking, how’d you hurt your leg? Get shot?”

  Stiles had been attacked in Hyattsburg by a carrier of Morningstar, and had been badly bitten. The wound never seemed to heal up properly, but Stiles never became ill. He was a true rarity: a human being with a natural immunity to the Morningstar strain.

  Stiles began to explain. “Well, actually, I was—”

  Hal shoved Stiles hard on the shoulder. “Yeah . . . he was shot. Friendly fire. Went out to take a piss one night and Rico drilled him by accident.”

  Stiles looked confused for the barest of moments, then took the hint, nodding and laughing. “It was my own fault. I should’ve stayed inside the perimeter.”

  “Ouch.” Wes chuckled and turned the cart into the parking lot of a small, single-story brick building. The landscaping had gone to pot and was overgrown, but the lot itself was still holding up strong, a pool of black in a cradle of green. The deputy pulled the cart to a stop in front of the entrance, and began to pull weapons out of the rear compartment.

  Hal took the opportunity to lean in close to Stiles. He lowered his voice. “Look, I know this is the first time we’ve been around anybody, and for all we know they’ll understand you’re lucky enough to be immune. But until we know for sure, don’t let a damn soul know you’ve been bitten. They’d kill you the second they figured it out, no matter if you haven’t turned. I would. Hell, we almost did kill you. In fact, if we get to this clinic and they want to look at your wound, don’t show it to them. Tell them you’re fine, it’s just sore. Stick to the bullet wound story. I’ll let Rico and the others in on it.”