by Z. A. Recht
Lutz trudged along, thinking black thoughts about Sawyer and how to best handle things. A straight-up fight was out of the question; the agent was highly trained and merciless. He would, as the kids put it, eat Lutz’s lunch. At the thought of shooting the government man in the back, a savage kind of glee passed through him, but then he would have the RSA soldiers to contend with. No, it would have to be something subtle, and Herman Lutz knew he was not good at subtle.
He had, however, a man in his ranks who was. George Lutz had warned his brother to keep an eye on this man more than once, and it was only Herman’s ruthlessness when it came to keeping his men in check that held off any attempted coup. His name was Patton, and he was a thorn in Herman’s paw. In contrast to Herman’s own brash ways or George’s constant menace, Patton was pleasant. Funny. A really nice guy to hang around with. He had a way about him, though . . . Herman could only talk to him for so long before he got the feeling that Patton was making fun, but never in a way that Herman could identify and take righteous offense.
He had his uses, and this would be one of them. Patton probably already had his approach all thought out.
An hour’s walk after he left Agent Sawyer, Lutz was in sight of his camp. He whistled three notes to let them know he was coming, so none of his trigger-happy men would ventilate his head. He’d been shot at more than once in the preceding month, ever since they were burned out of their stronghold, and Herman suspected that these instances were not cases of mistaken identity. In fact, he suspected Jenkins was the one, but he had no proof, and if he wanted to stay in charge, he couldn’t just off one of his own without something concrete.
Still. He threw Jenkins a beating one night, just to make sure he knew that Lutz was still the man. Through bloody lips and cracked teeth, Jenkins had assured him that, yes, he understood his place now.
But Lutz whistled anyway.
Five men stood in the encampment, all eyeing Lutz with varying degrees of either servility or hostility. That was how he liked it, but things were harder to manage now that his brother was out of the picture. George had a way with people, and Herman missed that about him.
All of the men there were dressed more or less the same way: denim jeans under dark T-shirts. It was hot, especially now that they weren’t in an air-conditioned space anymore. Of all the things that Lutz had to hear about, that was the thing that popped up most often: the oppressive July heat.
The remains of the raiders had been mollified by the news of Sawyer’s imminent arrival and the promise of swift and angry revenge against the people of Abraham. And so they waited, grumbling. The five men there (Patton, Jenkins, Coke, Charlie, and Blue) were standing around the remains of a wild hog and carving off bits to eat. Herman walked up to the ring and smelled the gamey pork.
“Where’s Ritter?”
Coke pointed back over his shoulder with a white rib bone. “Out there, with a rifle. Dumb shit thinks he saw Bigfoot.”
Herman barked out a laugh and pulled a large hunting knife from his belt. He began to cut a large piece of pig for himself. “Well, one of you can fill him in when he gets back. We’re in business, boys. Sawyer and his RSA goons are setting up to torch the town. It’ll be tonight. Only, I don’t know how things are going to work out for us.”
“They don’t seem to hold us in the highest esteem?” Patton asked from behind a piece of pork. His eyes flicked from Coke’s next to him to Herman. “We did kind of screw the pooch.”
“Whatever. Sawyer says we can help burn Abraham to the ground, and then maybe come along with him after. He’s got some other person he’s chasing, and I get the feeling that Abraham is only a test run. But like I said, I don’t really trust our G-man. So we need a backup . . . Patton, what’s the word I’m looking for?”
“Contingency.”
“That. Contingency plan. Now, who’s been up to the compound?”
“Right here,” Jenkins said through split lips. “Day before yesterday.”
Herman’s face split into an ugly grin.
“How many infected were still penned up in there?”
Later that day, Lutz led Coke, Blue, Jenkins, Patton, and Ritter to Sawyer’s encampment. The sentry there gave them a once-over and indicated a spot for them to wait . . . but not before confiscating their weapons, including Herman’s big knife. The group stood, humiliated, while the troops bustled around them. Lutz could feel his men’s stares on the back of his neck, and he did not relish the sensation.
An hour later, Agent Sawyer sauntered over to where the raiders stood.
“Good, you’re here. I know, you got the impression that you’d be participating in the sack of Abraham, but I thought it would be best if you sat this one out and watched instead.” He held up a hand, forestalling any of the other man’s complaints.
“You’ll have a front-row seat. Think of us as the instruments of your revenge,” he said with a half smile that Lutz felt was deprecating; it seemed the same to him as some of the smiles he’d gotten from Patton. “Someone will come and get you when it’s time.”
Sawyer turned and walked away.
“What are we gonna do, Herman? Charlie’s got the truck and he’s on his way,” Coke said at his back.
Herman looked at the sentry and saw that the man was paying them no attention. He turned to Coke and said, “Tell ’em you got to piss. Take a powder once you get out of sight and tear ass to catch up with Charlie. Hold him off, or it’s our asses.”
“Right,” Coke said.
“Hey, soldier boy! I need to take a mean piss, man. My back teeth are floatin’.”
The sentry rolled his eyes at Coke. “Find yourself a tree, redneck. You should be able to figure out the rest.”
Coke gave the man a big smile. “Thankee kind, shithead,” he muttered before disappearing into the trees. He drifted slowly away until he was out of sight, discovering once he got there that he really did have to piss. He was nervous . . . they’d done some crazy shit in the past, but the raiders had never been in a straight, stand-up fight with anyone. To their way of thinking, there was no need for that kind of John Wayne bullshit. Bushwhacking and sniping was the way to go; guerrilla hit-and-run tactics were king.
He faded back silently until he was sure the sentries wouldn’t see him break away, and then loped off into the woods, hoping that he’d catch Charlie in time; catching backlash from Sawyer and company for the little stunt they had in mind would likely spell slow death for all of them.
Coke knew Herman had sent him because he was “soft.” He wouldn’t leave his fellows to Sawyer’s tender mercies. Coke wasn’t so sure about Patton or Jenkins. Ritter, maybe . . . he’d shown he was hard enough to be with the raiders, but the sadistic streak they all possessed never really surfaced in Ritter. Oh, he’d taken his turns with the girls, all right, and he’d sniped more than one homesteader from Abraham, but that mean side was pretty subdued.
Coke ran.
On the other side of the camp, Agent Sawyer was getting the assault brief straight in his head. He liked to conduct these things without notes; it made him feel more in control, and he felt the men respected him more for it. The topographical maps he’d requested sat on the lighted desk in front of him, as well as satellite imagery of the town itself. Weather conditions for the evening were favorable: cloudy, with a storm brewing. Even though the storm kinked the plan to torch the town, explosives would do the job anyway, even in the hardest rains. And much faster, too . . . he didn’t want to stick around to make sure everything burned.
Sawyer glanced at his watch and grinned. “The time is nigh,” he said.
“What’s that, sir?” Sergeant Dick said to the side of him. The agent turned his head, catching the enlisted man in his icy gaze.
“I said, the time is nigh. Do you know what nigh means, soldier?”
The Sergeant scowled. “Yes, sir.”
“I’m sure you do. Tell Lieutenant Huck that I’m ready to conduct the brief.”
“Yes, sir,”
the sergeant said and turned away, walking to the weapons cache at a brisk pace.
Grunts, thought Sawyer. If I had my own men, I’d . . .
The thought of all the things he might do stuck in the agent’s brain.
For starters, he’d have that fucking doctor and her cure. And Mason. He would have Mason hung up by his goddamn balls and—
“Agent Sawyer?”
Pulling out of his happy place, Sawyer looked up to see another of the grunts standing in front of him. A sentry, this one was.
“What is it, soldier?”
He pointed over Sawyer’s shoulder at the group of raiders standing alone at the edge of the camp. “I just got relieved, sir, and I noticed that there are only four of the civilians now.”
Sawyer’s head whipped around. “What?”
“One of them went off to piss, and I guess—”
“You guess?” The agent’s gaze was back on the sentry, cold eyes glaring into the man’s soul. “You fucking guess. What’s your name?”
“Corporal Sims, sir.”
“All right. PFC Sims. Dump your fucking pack somewhere and load up with ammo. Come find me when you’re ready to go hunting.”
Agent Sawyer turned his back on the soldier and cut a brisk swath toward Lutz and his men.
“Jesus!” Patton cried out. “Thank you! I’ve been telling Herman that we should go look for him, but he kept saying you’d fucking kill us!”
Agent Sawyer’s gaze ripped into Lutz. “What is he saying?”
“Ah, he’s saying, Agent, that he doesn’t . . . uh—”
“I’m saying that Coke might not be coming back, man! He was scared shitless from the start, okay? Kept saying we should just vamoose out of here and, and . . .”
“And what?”
“Well,” Patton stammered, looking down at his shoes. “Well, not get mixed up with you bad motherfuckers. Coke kept saying it, how we couldn’t hang with you guys.”
Some of the tension left Sawyer’s shoulders. “Is that so?”
Patton wouldn’t look up; he just nodded.
“He was right,” Sawyer said. “And you better remember that. Anyone else want to scram out of here before the bullets fly?”
There was no answer from the raiders. He turned and walked back the way he came, intercepting the soldier running their way and turning him back toward the briefing.
“Hot damn,” Ritter said.
Coke ran through the forest as if the Hounds of Hell were on his trail.
A small part of his brain screamed at him to just keep on running. Screw Lutz, screw the RSA, screw the whole damn mess. He’d never been that nice a guy, and he wanted to hurt the Abraham townsfolk so bad he could taste it . . . but that Sawyer left a cold ball in his gut. And Patton’s idea for shafting him was just as bad. No, the mix was just too much for Coke.
Almost.
Mean-spirited asshole that he was, he just couldn’t see double-crossing the other raiders, or leaving Charlie to drive in there blind. If Lutz and the others were sidelined for the raid on Abraham, then they’d have no way to create the necessary diversion for Charlie to make it in safe and get away in the same condition. The raiders were a bad bunch, but they were his bad bunch. He’d been with them through some pretty sick times, and like it or not, he was one of them.
He stamped down on the screaming voice in his brain and ran faster.
Lutz had been right to send Coke. Of all the raiders, he and Charlie were the only ones that kept up a real exercise regimen. The others lifted weights and had pretty muscles to prove it, but Coke and Charlie were fit. Their compact frames spoke of long runs on the treadmills back at the compound, hours of calisthenics and isometric exercises. Coke snorted a laugh.
Ritter would have done laid down and died by now.
The running man was glad of another thing: the townspeople of Abraham had been more proactive at clearing the infected out of the surrounding woods than the raiders had given them credit for. There was no doubt in Coke’s mind, if Sheriff Keaton hadn’t been on top of that business, there was no way that Coke would have made it half this far without having to stop and gun down some infected. And that was something he did not want to do. That was one of the reasons he ran so obsessively: you end up out in the woods with a sprinter on you, you better be able to shag ass for as long as necessary.
Coke slowed for a minute to get his bearings, then turned west. The setting sun was low on the horizon, and he still had a mile to go before he hit pavement. Charlie would be in the dump truck at a point in the hills that overlooked Abraham, standing by for the start of festivities.
I just hope I make it in—
He yelped as a shambler stepped out from behind a tree, directly into his path. A moan issued from the throat of the thing for the half second it took for Coke to transition from a run to a flying elbow. The impact drove the infected back against a different tree, its skull compressing with a dry cracking sound between bone and wood.
Coke caught his balance and stomped out at the infected’s hip, throwing it off balance, and the shambler fell to the forest floor. A quick boot put an end to the thing’s existence, but the damage had been done.
Another moan sounded in the woods.
Coke looked forward to the sunset and started running again, cursing with every footstep.
Herman Lutz and his small band of three stood at the back of the clearing, listening to the brief with some wonder. He’d had his own ideas about revenge on Abraham, but Sawyer . . . well, he had to hand it to the sick son of a bitch.
“Each incursion team point man will carry a set of bolt cutters. The entry points are here, here, and here,” Agent Sawyer said, pointing to three spots on the map: the edge of town closest to the forest, the clearing where the people of Abraham burned the dead, and the opposite end of town from the formidable gates.
“Fat chance,” Lutz said loud at this last. “We tried getting in that way, and they cut us to pieces. There’s no way in hell—”
Sawyer turned and put up his hand. “Herman, shut the fuck up and try to use the three pounds of gray matter you’ve got holding your ears apart. This is where you attacked.”
“Yes.”
“And this is where they ran you to ground. And your man carrying the explosives, which I will assume is now in the capable hands of the Sheriff.”
“Yes.” A growl this time.
“Right. Try to follow me. If this is where they defeated you so soundly, Lutz, if this is where the tide was turned, so to speak, then this is the last place they think someone would try again. They’ve defended this port of entry, and defended it well. They will be overconfident in their ability to do it again, and on short notice.
“Now, back to business. Each team will surge in and plant their explosives in the sequence they are labeled. God help you if you fuck this part up. Point men and demolitions will then exit the area, leaving fire teams to start the loud portion of the assault. Strategic targets are here and here,” he said, smacking the jailhouse and hospital, “and are not to be blown. Everything else gets razed. Fire teams will then start their retreat, drawing the townspeople after you. Make it look good, we want them to follow. Radio when you reach these positions, and we will take care of the rest.”
Sawyer grinned at the mass of black-clad men in front of him.
“Any questions? Platoon leader, break your squads up and go over separate assignments. Fire Team Alpha, report to me in five minutes for your briefing. We head out at midnight.”
Lutz saw Sawyer walking back to him.
“Look, I didn’t mean—”
A fast and straight jab to Herman’s solar plexus cut off his air and his words. He dropped to his knees, trying to gasp for breath and failing, badly. Agent Sawyer bent down to speak in the man’s ear.
“Herman, you want to really consider what you’re doing here. What I’m doing here. How these two things interconnect. Has it crossed your mind, Herman, that with all this intel I have on the town an
d outlying areas, I don’t fucking need you anymore? For anything?”
Herman coughed.
“I didn’t think so. I’m keeping you and your boys around, Herman, because there is going to be some really dirty work coming up, and I don’t want to soil these fine soldiers’ hands with it. But keep pushing my buttons. Three can do the job as well as four.”
Sawyer straightened up and walked away, adjusting his light body armor. Herman coughed again on the ground, finally getting his wind back.
“When the time comes, boys,” he said, “I’m the one that knifes him in the back.”
Across the clearing, Sawyer was as gleeful as he’d ever been. Not as happy as the day he would bring in Dr. Demilio and take Mason’s head, no, but chipper anyway. It had been a long time since the former NSA agent had been on a field op with so many men. (He’d worn body armor in his own camp then, too.) A full platoon of RSA soldiers scurried around the small camp, ready and willing to do the agent’s bidding, and all that did was fan the fires that burned in him for bigger and better things.
The NCO in charge of Fire Team Alpha, Sergeant Helltree, reported to Agent Sawyer, his men arranged behind him at attention. “Sir, Fire Team Alpha is present and accounted for, awaiting orders.”
The agent held up one finger. “Be a minute,” he said, and walked behind his tent. He came right back with a pair of cases, each about four feet long. He put them down and opened one, looking up at the young Army man.
“This, Sergeant, is SIMON. Say hello.”
Omaha, NE
30 June 2007
0712 hrs_
DAWN BROKE RELUCTANTLY OVER the silent city, revealing empty avenues and abandoned highways. Weeds, growing freely out of cracks in the pavement and peeking out from behind the flattened tires of swiftly rusting cars, glistened with midsummer dew. The buildings and storefronts were stark and empty, their windows broken out, or boarded up. A large flatbed truck sat blocking one street, its front end crumpled against the corner of a redbrick building. The interior was charred and burned out beyond recognition.