The Last Bastion [Book 5]

by K. W. Callahan

  “It would mean getting on the river again to get there,” Christine said.

  “No way! Huh uh!” Wendell shook his head. “There’s no way I’m getting back in a boat again.” He felt Charla’s comforting hand upon his knee beneath the table.

  “Might be the only way,” Patrick said. “Unless we want to attempt the roads. At this point, I’m not sure which one is more dangerous.”

  “The river was only really dangerous when it was flooded,” Michael observed. “That and when we encountered the dam in Joliet. But the roadways are dangerous all the time. Between the biters and the types of people that ran Marta and Louise out of Riverport, you’re facing danger on multiple fronts. Plus, it means either walking or finding transportation. And after a long winter, I’m not expecting we’ll find many drivable vehicles.”

  “I think I’d rather be eaten by biters or shot by vigilantes before getting on that river again,” Wendell said, still adamant in his stance against further river travel.

  Charla glanced at Justin, then squeezed Wendell’s knee while catching his eye and glancing back over to where Justin sat quietly.

  Wendell took Charla’s hint that he should drop his river talk. Discussing the river still brought up painfully fresh memories of the event that had claimed Justin’s parents. Those memories, and the emotions that came with them, were still very raw, and not just for Justin but for all the Blenders.

  “I’m just afraid that if we stay here, those people who are holding up in Riverport will eventually stumble on us,” Michael said, and then blew on a bite of stew he held on his spoon. “And if that happens, from the way Marta has described them, we’re toast. Those people will be getting restless, and as they run out of supplies, they’ll probably start going back over spots they’ve already searched, looking for stuff they missed. And if they stop here, even if we can defend against a smaller scouting party, they’d likely come back with a larger force to take us out. That or they’ll round up a group of biters and send them in against us using the type of tactic Marta described they used to take Riverport. They don’t sound like the type of people who are content to leave their competition living nearby.”

  Suddenly a shadow appeared at the roadhouse front door. Just as the table turned its attention toward the door, two biters lurched into the room. One biter appeared to be in his late teens. The other looked older, like he might have been in his early-40s. Both wore clothing that was torn and filthy. They might have been father and son, but no one knew, and frankly, at this point, no one cared. They couldn’t care. There was no reason to. There was no helping these wretched souls other than to put them out of their misery.

  Michael instantly pulled his gun, but Marta stopped him with a hand as she stood. “No gun!” she instructed firmly.

  Instead, she moved rapidly to grab a hatchet from where it sat on the bar top. Patrick was right behind her, grabbing a long kitchen knife from beside the hatchet. The two moved in tandem, almost as though it was a well-coordinated effort. Marta didn’t hesitate. She swung her hatchet back, and then plunged it into the head of the younger biter. The biter didn’t even have time for a final screech or moan as the hatchet struck home, splitting its skull.

  Meanwhile, Patrick confronted the larger biter while the rest of the table rose in preparation to assist. But their help proved unnecessary. As the biter charged at Patrick, with a lightening quick jab, Patrick drove the knife blade into the biter’s abdomen. This stopped the biter in its tracks, and it recoiled in a combination of horrified pain and shock at the terrible sensation now radiating through its gut. With the biter stunned, Patrick ripped the blade from its stomach and in an overhand thrust, rammed it into its neck, severing its jugular.

  It wasn’t the most appetizing way to kill a biter at the dinner table. But fortunately – or not – the Blenders had been so acclimated to death and dying lately, as well as the blood and gore that accompanied it, that the two dead biters weren’t enough to deter their finishing of dinner. Cleanup, both of the dinner table and the two biters would have to come later. Meals trumped most everything but an actual biter attack these days.

  “Nice work,” Patrick nodded at Marta after he’d ensured his biter was indeed dead.

  “You too,” she nodded back, straight faced and serious as she so often was.

  “Next time, I get the hatchet,” Patrick eyed her with a challenging look and then a smirk.

  “You have to beat me to it,” she challenged back, still straight faced.

  “I’ll remember that,” Patrick led her over to a hand-washing station they’d set up at the end of the bar.

  “Why didn’t you want us to use the guns?” Andrew Franko asked Marta.

  “Someone might hear,” she explained as she wiped her hatchet on a towel draped across the back of one of the bar stools. “You don’t know who is around. Might be groups scavenging…or other biters. You shoot guns, they hear, they find us.”

  “She’s right,” Michael nodded. “We have to be careful about that. Guns are a last resort. Everyone got that?”

  There were confirmations that the rule was understood from around the table.

  “So where were we?” Patrick asked, returning to the table as though they’d just been interrupted by a phone call or a whining dog needing to go outside. He pulled out Marta’s chair for her, waiting to help her slide it in.

  “Thank you,” Marta said nervously as though she didn’t quite know how to take the gentlemanly gesture.

  Then Patrick seated himself.

  “We were trying to figure out what our next move will be,” Christine got things back on track.

  “Why do we have to move at all?” Jack Franko asked. “I kind of like it here.”

  “Haven’t you been listening?” his brother asked. “The dudes in Riverport might find us here. And if they do,” he drew a finger across his throat and made a gagging sound.

  “Right,” Michael said. “Ms. Mary, you’ve been pretty quiet over there. What do you think?”

  “Well,” Ms. Mary set her spoon down on the table and sat back in her chair, “the way I see it, if we can’t stay here, our best option appears to be St. Louis. It seems like our only shot at resuming some semblance of a normal life.”

  “Do we even know that St. Louis is still an option?” Christine asked. “I mean, have we tried to pick up a radio signal lately?”

  “Radio got wet when we left the island,” Michael explained. “I’m trying to dry it out, but I’m not sure it will work.”

  “So without the radio to confirm one way or the other, I still think St. Louis is our best, and for right now, only option,” Ms. Mary continued. “I suppose the only real question is how to get there. As we saw when our dinner was so rudely interrupted, there are still biters out there lurking. And according to Marta, there seems to be no lack of people around willing to take what they want by force as they did in Riverport. So I’m afraid that traveling by land continues to be dangerous to say the least.”

  “So we’re back to river travel again?” Wendell sighed dejectedly.

  “Not so fast,” Ms. Mary held up a hand. “You fail to remember that we’re now one boat short after losing the canoe. And there’s no way we’ll be able to fit all of us safely into the kayak, the canoe, and the fishing boat, even with a lesser amount of supplies. Putting two of us in the kayak, and three in the canoe, would put seven in the fishing boat. And I don’t think that’s safe.”

  “But four of those seven could be kids,” Caroline offered. “And Ms. Mary, you’re only slightly bigger than Andrew. Heck, he might even weigh more than you.”

  “Oh, well, thank you for the complement,” Ms. Mary smiled. “Although I have to say, unfortunately I haven’t been watching my weight by choice lately.”

  “We could put Justin and Louise in the middle of the canoe,” Jack offered. “They’re small. That would leave just six people in the fishing boat. We might be able to make it work, especially if me, Andrew and Ms. Mary sat in t
he middle of the fishing boat. It’d be less weight than full-size adults.”

  “I don’t know,” Michael shook his head. “I’m not sure we want to have that many people in one boat unless we have no other option. Maybe we can find another boat or two around here.”

  “I know place with boats,” Marta spoke up. “At least it had boats before outbreak.”

  Wendell looked defeated. “Really? After all we’ve been through, you really want to get back on that river?”

  “It wasn’t that bad until the flood, with exception of the dam we hit near Joliet,” Michael said. “If we don’t travel when the river is flooding, we hopefully won’t encounter a situation like the one we had here. Like the one that took…” here he glanced at Justin who was focused on his fish stew, “…that took us by surprise,” he finished.

  Wendell just took a long breath, exhaled heavily, and shook his head, realizing that he was on the losing end of the discussion.

  “Where are these boats you knew about before the outbreak, Marta?” Patrick asked.

  “Not far,” Marta explained. “A place to take boats.”

  “A repair shop?” Michael frowned.

  “No,” Marta shook her head. “A place to pay and take boat on river.”

  “A boat rental?” Patrick clarified.

  “Right, yes,” Marta said. “Boat rental, that’s it.”

  “There are still boats there?” Caroline asked.

  “Don’t know,” Marta shook her head. “Maybe. I don’t go by there for months.”

  Michael nodded, finishing his stew. “Well then, I guess we should go check this place out and see if we can find ourselves another boat or two. And we’d better do it before those people over in Riverport stumble upon us. The last thing I’ll say about this matter for the time being is that wherever we go, and whatever we find to live in, we need to find another bastion like the tower or even the island…without the flooding. Whatever it is, wherever it is, we need to get settled and soon. We can’t keep moving around like this. We’re running out of supplies and each time we make a move like this, it endangers us further. We need to find another bastion…our last bastion.”

  CHAPTER 10

  The town was a flurry of activity. People hurried around hauling supplies, loading vehicles, and preparing to leave.

  Spring had broken, the weather was on their side, and it was time to go. If nothing else, the attempt on Groush’s life had told him that.

  “Come on, people!” he cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted to his minions who were scrambling around downtown Riverport. “We ain’t got all day!”

  He watched them work, standing with his hands on his hips, a sneer on his face, a semi-automatic rifle slung around his shoulder, and two 9-millimeter handguns jammed into matching shoulder holsters. The look on his face was half from contempt regarding people who would allow themselves to be treated as he treated them. The other half came from his satisfaction knowing that he alone now led this band of battle-hardened miscreants.

  The weapons Groush carried were part of his regular attire after the attempt on his life. He was not going to be caught with his pants down – literally or figuratively – again.

  And with the warmer weather came a renewed interest in Groush’s pastime – attacking places like Riverport. He was ready for a new challenge. He liked the tactic they’d employed to take Riverport and was ready to try it again. He just needed to find the right target.

  But first things first.

  “Hey Dave?” Groush called to a man moving a bit slower than all the others rushing around the square.

  “What’s up?” Dave Flock sauntered over to where Groush stood. Dave was one of the few who didn’t snap-to when Groush called. It wasn’t that he didn’t obey. He just didn’t act like such a brown-noser like so many of the others. Groush respected that, at least as much as Groush respected anything.

  Dave was one of the men who had played Pied Piper in leading the biter herd to Riverport before Groush and the rest of the crew made the final assault. And while maybe not the strongest, smartest, or most capable with a weapon, Dave was fairly dependable.

  “Give me a hand with something,” Groush gave him a curled-lip sneer that Dave found extremely unnerving.

  “Sure,” Dave nodded, as if he had a choice.

  “Grab someone else…someone you trust, and meet me over at the supply dump.”

  “Okay,” Dave turned to go.

  “And make sure you’re both armed!” Groush called after him.

  “Uh…yeah, right,” Dave called back over his shoulder, racking his brain to think of someone among their crew of bandits, thieves, rapists, and murderers, he would consider ‘trustworthy’.

  Finding none worthy of the title, he instead selected someone he at least felt dependable in Harold “Locks” Washington, someone he’d worked with before and who had proved mildly reliable.

  Reliability was a rarity among a crew that focused first and foremost on satisfying their own needs. With little else to occupy their attention during their stint in Riverport, most of the men and women in Groush’s group spent their time drinking, fighting, and fornicating. Trying to get any sort of discipline among the ranks was difficult, especially with Groush as the head of the organization. It was like the blind leading the blind. And it was the one aspect in which Groush felt his leadership council had served him well. They were far better than he at communicating with the rank and file. They were able to harness the chaos and form some semblance of order related to things like guard duty, meal preparation, supply management, supply procurement, maintenance of sanitary conditions, and similar aspects of effectively managing an organization.

  Dave and Locks met Groush outside the Riverport armory that held their remaining food and ammunition stockpile, a stockpile that was dwindling by the day.

  Groush had assigned a special detail to do a final inventory count before they left Riverport. Unbeknownst to the group working inside, the move was unnecessary. Groush had designated a lone individual to do the job the previous day, so he knew exactly what supplies lay inside and in what quantities.

  Groush looked around him as Dave and Locks approached.

  “Come on…hurry up,” he tilted his head toward the armory entrance. “You two go first.”

  Dave led the way inside. Locks, the golden-haired fellow Dave had chosen to accompany him and Groush, seemed oblivious to any danger that being selected for a private mission with Groush might entail.

  They quietly entered the armory. Once inside, Dave stopped, unsure of the plan.

  “Supply room,” Groush directed the men firmly but quietly.

  He waited as Dave led the way. Locks followed Dave, and Groush brought up the rear. The three men walked downstairs and into a darkened hallway. The hall was lit by a single 100-watt bulb powered by an unseen generator.

  They could hear the sounds of voices and activity down the hallway ahead of them. All three men knew where the main supply dump was. It was in the same room in which they had found a sizeable stash of pre-existing supplies when they had arrived. These supplies had been the remnants of the goods collected by the Riverport townspeople before Groush and his soldiers had taken the town. It wasn’t a huge stockpile, but when supplemented by the goods that Groush and his people had brought with them, it had been enough to cover their needs for several weeks.

  That stockpile was nearly depleted, though. Thus, Groush’s final inventory before they departed. Groush explained the move as a way of creating a better timeline for traveling to and readying an assault on their next target.

  As they reached the supply room, Dave stopped just outside the partially open door and turned to glance back at Groush. He noticed that Groush had swung his semi-automatic rifle around to bear.

  Groush nodded for him to enter, and Dave wondered if he was enjoying his last few breaths.

  “Follow my lead and do as I do.” Groush whispered.

  Dave pushed the door open and walked
inside. Locks and Groush followed him in. Groush stood between the two men, watching the activity around him as eight people worked among stacks of boxes. Several large folding tables were covered with an array of canned items and bagged dry goods like rice, beans, and pasta.

  “How we coming?” Groush asked as several of those working to take inventory paused to see who had entered.

  “Hey boss! Glad you’re here!” a young man with a heavy beard greeted them. He looked at the two men on either side of Groush and gave a slight frown. “We’re just about finished up on the count,” he held up a clipboard for Groush to see.

  “Good,” Groush swung his semi-automatic rifle around to bear. “You’re right, you are about finished.” And with that he fired three rounds directly into the clipboard-holding man, sending him reeling backward and onto one of the tables of supplies.

  The table, unable to bear his weight along with all the other goods stacked atop it, cracked in half, dropping the dead man into a menagerie of cans.

  The other people in the room instantly dropped what they were doing. The ones who were armed went for weapons. The ones who weren’t dove for cover behind or among the crates of goods.

  Both Dave and Locks instantly knew why Groush had brought them. They pulled their weapons and opened fire, each taking down one of the targets that looked to be going for a weapon. Meanwhile, Groush took down two more of the inventory takers as they brought their weapons to bear.

  After the smoke cleared, Groush called to the three surviving members of the inventory team, “Get the fuck out here! You try any shit and you’re dead!”

  The three men came out slowly from behind the boxes, hands raised in the air.

  “What the hell, man!” one of them said, eyeing his dead counterparts scattered haphazardly around the room.

  “Dave! Dude! What the fuck are you doing?!” another said. “I thought you were cool, man!”

  Dave just looked at him silently.

  “Please don’t kill us, Groush,” one man said, his blood-smattered face smeared with fear. “We didn’t do anything. We’ve been loyal.”