The Darkest Place: A Surviving the Dead Novel

by James Cook

  Hicks listened to the clicking of radios until it was his turn, then pressed the button twice. When all fire teams had checked in, Kelly gave the order to advance.

  Hicks threaded his way silently through the forest, Cole’s heavy footsteps close by. The big gunner stayed behind Hicks and a few meters to his right, scanning the forest with his SAW light machine gun. Hicks led the team on a wide arc behind the hostiles, moving within a hundred meters of the farthest targets and taking position under a cluster of cedars. He and Cole dropped to their bellies, positioned their weapons, and waited.

  A few minutes later, the fire teams behind them moved into position and began passing signals down the line. Not for the first time, Hicks was grateful there weren’t many new people in Echo Company. All of the men on the recon detail were experienced veterans, many of them with pre-Outbreak combat experience. They moved swiftly and efficiently, staying low and quiet. There was no arguing or confusion. These soldiers knew the importance of stealth when closing in on an enemy position. One wrong footfall, one cough or sneeze, one dropped rifle, and the element of surprise would be lost. No one wanted that, and they were appropriately careful.

  Hicks watched the other fire teams pick targets and signal each other their lanes of fire. Since he and Cole were on point, they were covering the easternmost group of targets with Holland and Fuller providing crossfire.

  As he lay silently among the husks of dead cedar boughs, right eye an inch away from his scope, Hicks heard his radio crackle in his ear. “All stations in position,” Kelly whispered. “Remember, fingers off the trigger until they give us a reason to shoot. Engaging now. Stand by.”

  From the corner of his eye, Hicks saw Kelly stand up and level his rifle. “You’re surrounded,” he shouted, voice echoing down the embankment. “Stand up and put your hands over your head. Do it now!”

  One of the bundled shapes ahead of him responded by rolling over onto its back and opening fire in Kelly’s direction. The veteran sergeant dropped to his belly and returned fire as the men around him let loose with their M-4s. The offending gunman died in a hail of bullets, a few stray rounds striking the man next to him and eliciting an agonized scream.

  “Okay, he’s down. Cease fire,” Kelly said calmly over the radio. The chatter of rifles ceased.

  Kelly shouted, “Unless the rest of you want to die too, I strongly suggest you stand up and keep your hands where I can see them.

  A moment passed as the gunmen looked around and realized how badly outnumbered they were. Heated whispers passed between them.

  “We don’t have all day, kids,” Kelly said. “I’m going to count to five, and then my men are going to open fire. One. Two. Three-”

  “All right!” a voice shouted. “We surrender. Everyone, on your feet.”

  The remaining insurgents obeyed the command, rising to their feet and raising their hands.

  “Move in, but be careful,” Kelly radioed. “If they try anything, shoot them.”

  Hicks, Cole, Holland, and Fuller approached the two men nearest them. Hicks pointed at the man on his left. “Step that way until I tell you to stop,” he said.

  The man complied, his ghillie suit dragging the ground in his wake. When he was far enough away from his companion, Hicks ordered him to a halt.

  “Turn around and put your hands on top of your head. Good. Now get down on your knees and cross your ankles.” He moved forward until the barrel of his carbine was a few inches from the insurgent’s head, then nodded to Cole. The big man slung his SAW behind his back before quickly and firmly zip-tying the gunman’s hands. Holland and Fuller did the same with their prisoner.

  Kelly keyed his radio and told the recon detail where to bring the detainees. Hicks kept his gun trained on the back of the insurgent’s head as they marched him over and ordered him to sit. Two other fire teams brought his surviving comrades to join him.

  “What about those two,” Kelly asked, pointing in the direction of the men who had been shot.

  One of the SAW gunners from Second Platoon shook his head. “Sorry, Sergeant. Both dead. The guy that shot at you looks like Swiss cheese, and the other guy took a bullet to the femoral artery. Bled out before we could do anything about it.”

  Kelly let out a sigh. “Oh well. Two less assholes in the world.” He looked over at Hicks and punched him in the arm.

  “Man, those guys were camouflaged like a motherfucker. How’d you spot ‘em?”

  Hicks pointed behind him. “Picked up their trail while I was out on point. Saw there were at least six of them, passed through not long ago. So I asked myself where would I set up if I wanted to use walkers as a distraction and snipe me some federal types. I’ll give ‘em credit, though, they picked a good spot.”

  Kelly looked in the direction the insurgents had been aiming and stepped closer to the treeline. There was a low knot of dense vegetation where the field met the forest, and then a broad, flat plain beyond. He knelt to stare through the brush at the undulating knot of infected pressed against the south wall.

  “I see what you mean,” he said. “If First Platoon and the Ninth had set up in that field, those assholes would have had them dead to rights.” He cast an angry glare toward the prisoners. “Sneaky fucks.”

  “Well, we stopped them,” Hicks said. “That’s the important thing.”

  “Yeah.” Kelly inclined his head toward the horde. “Now for the fun part.”

  *****

  Hicks didn’t need the Y-shaped stand under his weapon’s foregrip, but he didn’t mind using it either.

  It was a simple thing, constructed of three lengths of slender, interlocking aluminum pipe with a thin bungee cord holding them together. When not in use, it could be broken down and lashed to his pack, similar to the red and white collapsible canes used by blind people. Every soldier in Echo Company—and the Army, for that matter—had one. They were modular, making them adjustable to a particular soldier’s height. The stands increased accuracy rates so much that Central Command had made them mandatory equipment.

  “You know, Hicks,” Holland said between shots, “you can give my rifle back any time you want.”

  Hicks grunted and lined up another shot. The walker in his crosshairs had been a woman once. Her clothes had long since fallen apart, leaving her mottled gray skin exposed to the elements. Only her back was visible, but Hicks could tell she had been attractive when she was still alive. Early twenties, slim physique, well-muscled legs and buttocks, probably a runner or a fitness nut. He squeezed the trigger, felt a light jolt against his shoulder, and the walker fell.

  “I don’t know, I kinda like it,” Hicks said. “It’s a little heavier than my M-4, but the extra weight reduces recoil. Scope’s not too bad either.”

  “Very funny.” Holland shifted his aim, let out a breath, and fired another shot. “You want to take my job, go right ahead. I’m tired of crawling around in the dirt anyway.”

  Hicks let out a sigh and raised his right hand. A militiaman behind him tapped him on the shoulder and took his place on the firing line. Holland followed suit.

  “Here,” Hicks held the sniper carbine at arm’s length. Holland took it and gave Hicks back his M-4.

  “Thanks,” Holland said. He looked toward the line of soldiers firing upon the horde forty meters in the distance. “I’m still pissed at you for fucking up my hand, but I have to admit that was good work you did earlier. You’re a hell of a tracker.”

  “Thanks.” Hicks slapped him on the arm. “You might be annoying as hell, but you’re a good man to have around in a fight.”

  Holland grinned. “Fuck you.”

  Both men jumped a little when they heard Sergeant Ashman’s voice amplified by a bullhorn. “Cease fire! Cease fire! Weapons safe on the firing line!”

  “Fuck me running,” Holland mumbled.

  The next command was predictable. “Draw hand weapons and prepare to advance.”

  “Here we go.” Holland drew his twin tomahawks and gave them a litt
le twirl. Hicks reached over his shoulder and grasped the handle of his short, heavy bladed spear and drew it from its makeshift leather-and-para-cord sheath. Ahead of them, Cole stepped away from the firing line and gave his massive bar mace a few warm-up swings.

  The commanding officer of Second Platoon turned to his men and raised his bullhorn. “Draw blades!”

  Second Platoon, who had spent the winter exterminating infected in Kansas, all drew the Army’s new standard issue melee weapon: the MK 9 Anti-Revenant Personal Defense Tool. It consisted of a heavy twenty-inch blade forged from high-carbon steel, similar in shape to a bolo machete, and a twelve-inch plastic composite handle.

  Designed to be wielded two-handed, the MK 9s could split a walker’s head in twain with a single overhead chop. Hicks had seen them put to hard use many times, and although he preferred his spear, he had to admit the big, ugly weapons were effective.

  He watched Second Platoon warm up for a few moments, then turned to Holland. “Stay behind me and to my right,” he said. “Make sure any walkers you kill fall away from me.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. Same thing we always do.”

  “Makes me feel better to say it.”

  To his left, Hicks saw Ashman raise his bullhorn. “Drop your gear except hand weapons and water. I don’t want to see anyone with a rifle except squad leaders. Don’t forget to don your gloves and PPE. When the fighting starts, make sure you pace yourselves. Remember to take long, deep breaths. We’re in for a long fight, boys, so be smart and look out for each other.”

  Hicks and the other men in First Platoon put on goggles and wrapped thick scarves around their mouths and noses. Second Platoon switched from their Kevlar helmets to the Army’s new plastic helmets designed specifically for fighting revenants. Hicks thought they looked like the offspring of an aviation helmet and a plastic face shield, and from everything he had heard, they were horrifically uncomfortable. Hicks preferred the scarf-and-goggles method.

  One of the Army’s new innovations he did like, however, were his armored gloves. Sewn from dense nylon with hard plastic plates woven around the knuckles and forearms, they extended from his fingertips all the way past his elbows and had a Velcro strap at the top to secure them in place.

  The Army, after conducting research to assess how they could better protect troops from revenant bites, had discovered over ninety percent of bites were inflicted on the hands and forearms. Subsequently, after using one of their few remaining manufacturing facilities to turn out over a hundred thousand pairs of armored gloves, the casualty rates directly attributable to walker attacks fell to a fraction of what they had been before. Hicks flexed his hands a few times to loosen them up, adjusted the position of his plastic armor, and double-checked the straps above his elbows.

  Good to go.

  “All right,” Ashman shouted, holding his custom-forged zveihänder over his head, poised for a skull-splitting chop. “Form up.”

  Hicks ceased his warm-up routine and fell in line. Cole stood to his left, Holland to his right. He brought his spear to the ready position and adjusted his stance, weight centered over the balls of his feet, legs braced at the proper angle.

  The people on the catwalk in the distance continued beating pots and pans together and shouting at the infected, keeping them packed against the wall. Ashman stepped in front of the platoon, raised his sword, and opened his mouth to give the order to advance. But before he could, Lt. Jonas’ voice cut across the field.

  “Hold up, Sergeant,” he shouted, radio in hand. “I have a better idea.”

  Ashman, somewhat crestfallen, lowered his sword. Hicks watched him walk over to their CO before turning his attention back to the wall.

  On the catwalk, Deputy Glover stood with her hands cupped around her mouth shouting something unintelligible at the people making noise. After a few seconds, the clamor stopped and the townsfolk slowly began climbing down.

  “The hell they doin’?” Cole muttered.

  Hicks shook his head. “No idea.” He kept his place in ranks, shifting restlessly, until a few seconds later the throaty rumble of a tank engine echoed across the field.

  “All right, kids,” Ashman called out, grinning. “Make some noise.”

  Hicks took off his right glove, pinched his fingers between his teeth, and let out a piercing whistle. The men around him began shouting a colorful tapestry of insults, threats, and general obscenity. Holland joined them by loudly clanking his tomahawks together. To Hicks’ left, he watched an M-109 Howitzer round the corner of the wall and roll into view.

  Jonas gave the order to pull back but keep the infected bunched together. With the front ranks of infected only fifty yards away, the troops slowly led the undead toward the self-propelled artillery piece. When Jonas gave the order to break ranks and run, the horde had reformed into a teardrop shape pointed straight at the barrel of the Howitzer’s 155mm cannon.

  Once safely out of the way, the soldiers and militiamen put in their earplugs and waited. Hicks watched the Howitzer’s six-man crew lower the vehicle’s spades and back up over them. Once the massive gun was stabilized, the crew loudly exhorted to their audience to get ready for a little Killer Junior action.

  “Oh, this is gonna to be good,” Holland said, rubbing his hands together.

  Vincenzo tapped Hicks on the arm and leaned in close. “What the hell is a Killer Junior?”

  “Direct-fire fragmentation round. Nasty shit. Just watch.”

  The horde was less than a hundred meters from the Howitzer. The soldier manning the .50 caliber machine gun held up a hand and counted down three, two, one…

  BOOM.

  The backwash from the blast slapped Hicks in the chest like a giant, invisible hand. A cloud of white smoke obscured the horde, then quickly dissipated. The shot cut a swath through the infected, reducing more than half their number to a maroon-colored mist. Hicks listened to the artillery crew shout back and forth while they reloaded, and then, when the horde recovered and resumed its previous teardrop-shaped approach, the Howitzer thundered again, leaving only a few dozen walkers in its wake.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Vincenzo whispered. “Why didn’t they just do that to begin with?”

  Hicks laughed. “Why does the Army do anything?”

  “Good point.”

  Sergeant Ashman stood up and turned to his men. “All right, fellas.” He raised his sword and pointed it at the few remaining infected. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a bite to eat. Let’s mop up and get the hell out of here.”

  Hicks took up his spear and went to work.

  THREE

  The rest of the day was routine.

  First Platoon returned to their barracks and cleaned their weapons. A short time later, the civilian contractors showed up and cooked them breakfast. Then came PT—led by Sergeant Ashman—followed by an equipment inspection carried out by the platoon’s squad leaders. After inspection came the filling out of requisition forms to replace anything worn beyond usefulness.

  These events preceded a patrol of the town’s perimeter, which was really just an excuse for Ashman to lead his men on an eight-mile road march in full combat gear. Consequently, when they returned at 1300 hours for lunch, they were ravenous.

  The afternoon consisted of cleaning their barracks, digging new latrines, and expending a portion of the company’s training ammunition in the urban combat facility just outside Fort McCray. Then they cleaned their weapons again, marched back to the barracks, and ate their evening meal. At 1800 hours, Lt. Jonas told his men to check the watch bill and keep their ears open for alarm bells, but otherwise, the rest of the day was theirs.

  Hicks wasn’t worried about having to stand watch. He had drawn the mid-watch the night before, and he knew Ashman was a sensible sergeant who knew better than to wear his men out with unnecessary sleep deprivation. Still, he checked the bill just to be sure. He wasn’t on it.

  As Hicks was stowing his gear and preparing to leave, Holland sat dow
n on the bunk across from him. “Going to see Miranda?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll never understand how you landed her. Half the platoon tried and failed. Even Cole struck out, and that guy is a bona fide pussy magnet.”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “Everybody’s in love with her, you know. We all hate you because she picked you over the rest of us. I’ll never understand why. You barely talk, you’re not intelligent or charming, and your face looks like a bowl of smashed assholes. I don’t get it. What does she see in you?”

  “Must be my southern charm.”

  Holland began unlacing his boots. “You must be hung like a horse. That’s gotta be it. How big is your dick? Eight, ten, eleven inches? It’s the only explanation.”

  Hicks found himself laughing. “Tell you what, Derrick. You enjoy spending the rest of the evening pondering the dimensions of my penis. I’m gonna go see my girlfriend.”

  “I hate you, Caleb. I’m gonna kill you in your sleep and steal your girlfriend.”

  “Stay out of trouble, amigo.”

  “Never in life. You coming by Stall’s for drinks tonight?”

  “Probably not.”

  “Can’t say I blame you. All right, man, have fun.”

  “Adios.”

  *****

  The Hollow Rock General Store was a short walk from the VFW hall, which was one of the many reasons Hicks was grateful his platoon was garrisoned in town and not with the rest of Echo Company at Fort McCray.

  The afternoon was warm, the springtime sun still well above the horizon, leaving a few more hours of daylight before nightfall. It was a welcome reprieve from what had been a long, dark winter. As he walked, Hicks thought to himself that given the choice between another winter like the one just passed, and dealing with marauders and infected on a daily basis, he would take the extra combat action any day of the week.

  Besides, he liked combat. Being close to death made him feel more alive, although he would never admit it out loud. Especially not to Miranda.