by James Cook
Caleb fought down a laugh as they took off in a clamor of iron-shod hooves on crumbling pavement.
NINE
Lieutenant Jonas was not surprised.
“You have a way of sticking your nose into things, don’t you?” he asked Eric. The old soldier stood at the north gate, his platoon in ranks behind him waiting for the guards to let them out.
Caleb stood out of the saddle and stepped down, followed closely by Riordan as he walked over to his platoon CO. Jonas directed his disapproving gaze in Caleb’s direction. “How’d he Shanghai you into this?”
Caleb stepped close and kept his voice low. “Probably best if I don’t say it publicly, sir.”
The lieutenant paled visibly. He was a good man and a fine soldier, but he had a weakness for games of chance. It was a character flaw he worked hard to conceal from those higher up in the chain of command. By his expression, Caleb could tell that was the first place his thoughts went.
“Very well, Specialist. Fall in with your squad.”
Caleb walked a few steps behind his CO, then stopped to watch and listen. Lt. Jonas didn’t notice, his attention turning to Deputy Reid. “Quentin, I don’t suppose you’d mind running our horse back up to HQ?”
The young man shook his head. “Not at all. I’ll leave a note with the disbursing clerk.”
“Very well.” Jonas shifted his attention to Eric. “Something I can do for you?”
“Going on a salvage run today. Thought I’d bring Delta Squad along. Standard fee.”
Jonas shook his head. “Afraid not, Mr. Riordan. Word came down from General Kyle himself. We’re to report to company HQ and await orders.”
“What about the guys from the Ninth?”
“Them too. Lieutenant Cohen just sent a wagon for Sanchez’s men a few minutes ago.”
Eric put his hands on his hips and leaned closer. “Come on, you can spare one squad, can’t you? I got the transport for the next two days, but I can’t do a salvage run on my own.”
The lieutenant shook his head again. “It’s out of my hands. Orders are orders. Maybe you can hire a few guardsmen.”
Caleb watched Eric stare at the ground for a moment, gears turning behind calculating eyes. “Okay,” he said finally. “How about I tag along? You’ve hired me as a contractor before, scout work and such. Captain Harlow knows me. Just tell him I offered to help out.”
“He’s pretty tight about our budget. I can’t afford to hire you right now.”
“I’ll waive my fee, then.”
Jonas thought it over. “I don’t suppose you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart?”
Eric shrugged, expression neutral. “Thomas Edison once said opportunity is missed by most people because it’s dressed in overalls and looks like work.”
The old soldier laughed. “All right then. Fall in with Delta, but keep a low profile.”
“Will do.” Eric gave Caleb a wink as he stepped past the lieutenant and walked with him toward his squad.
“Nicely done,” Caleb said.
Eric suddenly grew serious. “Anything dangerous enough to require the attention of all of Echo Company and the Ninth TVM is something the people of Hollow Rock need to know about.”
Caleb said nothing as the gate opened and they marched toward Fort McCray.
*****
As Master Sergeant Ashman called the platoon to a halt, Caleb thought about how well the day had started, and that he should not be surprised the fates had decided to balance the scales to the side of shitty.
On the gravel trail between Hollow Rock and Fort McCray, the path wound down around the back of a heavily wooded hill in defilade from the guards in the towers—meaning they couldn’t see it even with field glasses. Worse, the depression between hills followed the natural contours of the land, making it the path of least resistance for someone on foot.
And the undead, generally speaking, always followed the path of least resistance.
Consequently, every man in First Platoon was on alert, fully aware that if they were going to run into walkers, this was the most likely place. And because Caleb’s day had started out so well, he blamed himself for the bad luck his platoon had just encountered.
Delta Squad was close to the back of the formation, so Caleb’s first indication of the trouble ahead was a not-so-distant chorus of moans and howls. No matter how many times he heard the mourning call of the undead, it still sent a chill down his spine. The men around him groaned in irritation.
“Great,” Holland said. “Just fuckin’ great. This is exactly what we need right now. More walkers.”
“Shut up a minute.” Thompson fluttered his hand impatiently at Holland, two fingers pressed against his radio earpiece. Finally, he took his hand from his ear. “Okay, there’s a big horde up ahead, about three hundred strong, spread out over a few hundred meters in the saddle between this hill and the one leading up to Fort McCray. We’re to fan out fifty meters ahead in standard crescent formation. Rifles only, no SAWs, no grenades.”
“Man, shit.” Cole slid his SAW around to his back and turned toward Caleb. “Mind helpin’ me out?”
Caleb unlashed an M-4 carbine from Cole’s pack and handed it to him. The big man checked the round in the chamber before switching off the safety.
Thompson watched the exchange quietly, then said, “We’re to take position on the far right. Our squad will lead off and get the Rot pointed in our direction. Once we have them bunched, we’ll form a shitpile at a forty meter standoff with Charlie Squad backing us up. Alpha and Bravo will circle ninety degrees from our line of fire and light ‘em up from the left flank. If they start to move around the shitpile, Charlie will leapfrog us and box them in. No matter what, we are to hold position. Any questions?”
Caleb shook his head, along with the other men in his squad. None of what Thompson said was anything new. Every man in First Platoon had fought countless battles with the undead, and the tactics Thompson described were as familiar to them as the grips of their rifles.
“Hey Ethan, what about me?” Eric said, stepping around Cole.
Sgt. Thompson smiled at his old friend, reminding Caleb the two men had known each other since before Thompson joined the Army. “What are you packing?”
Eric slid his state-of-the-art rifle around on its sling and held it up for Thompson to see. “M-6. Law enforcement configuration, ACOG scope, suppressor ready.” He patted the military grade suppressor on his MOLLE vest.
“Ammo?” Thompson asked.
“Two-ten in mags, another hundred boxed up in my pack.”
“LT won’t be able to reimburse you.”
Eric shrugged. “I’ll be all right.”
Thompson nodded. “Fair enough. Fall in with Holland’s fire team; we can always use another marksman. As for the rest of you, once we whittle ‘em down to about a hundred or so, expect to move in with hand weapons. Now, last chance—any questions?”
The young staff sergeant was met with silence.
“All right. Move out.”
Eric fell in behind Caleb as the squad moved into position. When they were halfway down the hill and forty meters from the trail, the horde below came into view. The ghouls noticed First Platoon, sent up a swarm of howls, and began scrambling up the embankment to reach them. In their desperation, they bounced off one another and crawled heedlessly over those who fell. There was no cohesion to the horde, just a mutual desire to sink their teeth into the walking fleshy things up the hill.
Caleb took his usual spot on the far left, unfolded his aiming stick, and balanced the foregrip of his M-4. Eric set up a few feet to his right, sitting down to fire from a seated position. The rest of the squad followed suit until they were a few feet apart, rifles aimed, ready to go to work.
“Standby a minute, fellas,” Thompson called out. “The rest of the platoon is still getting into position.”
Caleb relaxed, stood up straight, and took a few deep breaths. He remembered his earplugs and put them in, g
rateful it occurred to him before the shooting started. He turned his head and shouted at the other members of his squad to do the same. Cormier, Page, and Fuller cursed softly as they too realized they didn’t have their ears in. Their standard issue M-4 rifles were accurate, reliable weapons, but extremely loud.
Down the slope, the horde drew slowly, inexorably closer. A couple of minutes passed before Thompson’s voice cut the air.
“All are stations in position. Fire at will.”
Caleb leaned over his rifle, picked a target, and centered his ACOG reticle. The walker in his sights was female, clothes long since disintegrated, gaping black wounds visible on her arms, legs, and torso from where other infected had torn into her before she died. Caleb felt a pang of pity for the person she had once been. Judging by her wounds, she had literally been eaten to death.
Hell of a bad way to go.
He let out a breath, squeezed the trigger, and felt the rifle’s recoil. In his sights, a spray of black and red erupted behind the walker, painting the ghouls behind her with matted gore. Her body stiffened, gave a final shudder, and fell.
One down, about seven billion to go.
Despite the earplugs, the gunfire to his right was still very loud. He ignored the noise and kept firing, heartbeat steady, posture relaxed, leaning into his weapon, feet braced, a slight bend in the knees, the movements as familiar as breathing. It would have been easy to pick up the pace and drop walkers at double his current rate, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. His father’s words came back to him, always compelling despite the passage of years:
Never let anyone know what you can do, Caleb. People will try to make a tool out of you. Bend you to their will. If they can’t win you over with charm, they’ll find some leverage, some way to hurt you. They will try to own you. Believe me, son. I know.
In the early days after joining the Army, he had shown off a few times. Couldn’t help himself. He had used his tracking and marksmanship skills to hunt game and supplement his platoon’s meager rations with fresh meat. It had won him many friends, but had also attracted the attention of Lieutenant Jonas.
While standing watch one night, eyes searching the forest around him for walkers, ears straining for footsteps, he heard the old soldier approaching. The lieutenant was trying to be stealthy, but he was as loud as thunder compared to Caleb’s father.
Caleb knew who it was by the tread, but because the night was pitch dark, he was expected to call out a challenge to anyone approaching the camp. When Jonas was close enough to hear him, he whispered, “Mockingbird.”
Jonas answered with the appropriate pre-arranged response. “Fireball.”
“Approach and be recognized.”
Caleb kept his rifle at the low ready as his CO stepped into sight. “Nicely done. You’ve got good ears.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The lieutenant stopped beside him and peered out into the forest. “Everything quiet?”
“Yes sir.”
“Any sign of walkers?”
“No sir.”
Jonas was silent a moment, then said, “Mind if I ask you a personal question, Private Hicks?”
“Sir?”
“Where did you learn how to track and shoot?”
Never let anyone know what you can do, Caleb. “If you don’t mind me asking, sir, why do you want to know?”
“You stalked a deer on foot today and brought it down with one shot from a 5.56. Any man can shoot like that is wasting himself as a regular infantry grunt. Might be we can find something else for you to do, if you’re up to it.”
Caleb looked down and shuffled his feet. “I don’t know, sir. I feel like I still have a lot to learn.”
The lieutenant nodded. “No pressure, son. Just thought I’d bring it up. Give you something to think about.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now you still haven’t answered my question.”
“Oh, right. My dad used to take me hunting a lot. Taught me how to recognize tracks, read terrain, find breaks in foliage, that sort of thing.”
“Hm. Your old man must have been a hell of a hunter.”
“Yes sir. He was.”
Jonas hadn’t bothered him about it since, but if Ashman’s prediction of his forthcoming promotion was correct, Caleb figured it was only a matter of time.
Nothing I can do about it right now. Worry about it when it happens, not before.
Caleb kept firing until his magazine ran out, reloaded, and began firing again. Despite the toll his squad’s rifles were taking, the bulk of the horde was still making progress up the hill. The walkers had bunched into a single mass, attracted by the cacophony of noise echoing above them—exactly what Delta Squad wanted them to do. The ones with fewer mechanical injuries outpaced their more tattered brethren, causing the horde to coalesce into the now-familiar teardrop shape. Caleb aimed his fire along their left flank, causing ripples in the horde where ghouls stepped over the bodies of their fellow undead. In his peripheral vision, he saw Thompson had stopped firing and was squinting into the eyepiece of a handheld rangefinder.
“All right,” he shouted over the noise. “They reached standoff range. Start piling ‘em up.” He then said a few quick words into his radio, stashed the rangefinder on his vest, and began firing again.
The first step in forming a shitpile, as they termed a large mound of permanently dead ghouls, was to drop the ones closest to the center of the horde until they formed a stack. As the flanks slowly caught up, Holland and Thompson would maintain fire on the center while the rest of the squad shifted fire farther down the flanks. The result was a gradually building wall of dead bodies at a set distance that slowed the progress of the horde to a crawl. As the bodies piled up, the walkers would naturally try to go around it rather than over it, which served to spread out the line.
Just as it was getting to the point Caleb couldn’t shoot fast enough to keep his section of the horde at standoff distance, he heard Alpha and Bravo squads open up to his left. A hail of bullets ripped into the horde from that side, preventing them from going around the rapidly building pile ahead of them. The slope of the hill compounded this difficulty, forcing the walkers to crawl up the middle. When their heads popped up over the pile, they were easy pickings.
The number of ghouls in Caleb’s sights began to rapidly diminish, which was good because he could feel the heat of his barrel radiating through the rail shroud. The smell of spent cordite was strong in the air, stinging his nostrils. He found it oddly nostalgic.
Just as the chamber latched open on the last round in Caleb’s magazine, Thompson gave the order to cease fire.
“Drop your packs, vests, and extra gear,” he said. “Hand weapons only. If you have a sidearm, bring it, but don’t use it unless absolutely necessary. If you do, maintain muzzle discipline at all times. And no fucking heroics; we fight as a team. If you get in trouble, call for help. Don your PPE now, don’t wait until we get there. Understood?”
The squad gave a round of acknowledgements. Thompson wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know, but they all knew it made him feel better to say it.
“We’re to move down the hill and attack on the right flank,” Thompson went on. “Alpha will hit them on the left while Bravo circles around behind. Charlie will stay in reserve and take out any walkers who make it over the pile. Any questions?”
There were none.
“All right. Let’s get it done.”
Caleb dropped his pack to the ground, followed by his MOLLE vest and rifle. His Beretta was in a drop holster on his hip, which he kept. His scarf went around his mouth and nose, his combat goggles went over his eyes, the armored gloves went over his hands and forearms. After drawing his spear, he followed Thompson and the rest of his squad down the hill. Beside him, Eric hefted a Y-shaped stick and a rapier-like sword. “Mind if I tag along?” he asked.
“Not at all,” Caleb replied. “I usually team up with Cole and Holland.”
> “Works for me. Where do you want me?”
“Let Cole take point and kill anything that approaches on his right. I’ll move left with Holland.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Cole turned to them and grinned. “And make sure you give me plenty of room to swing.”
Eric eyed the massive bar mace in the gunner’s thick hands. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
When they were in position, lined up along the horde’s right flank roughly thirty meters away, Thompson held up a hand. “Hold position and wait for my order.”
Caleb gripped his spear, hands tightening on the familiar texture of the hickory shaft. The handle was short, only three and a half feet long, tipped with a heavy ten-inch blade. The blade was triangular in shape with a narrow profile and a thick spine in the middle, making it perfect for ramming through nasal cavities and soft palates. Caleb remembered all the times his father had taken him hunting for wild pigs on horseback armed only with boar spears, and all the times they had sparred with rubber training spears. His father had always gotten the best of him until he was about fifteen and accidentally broke Caleb’s spear in a sparring match. His father kept attacking anyway, loudly reminding him that in a real fight, his opponent wouldn’t stop to let him carve a new one. To his surprise, he found he could handle the weapon much better with the shorter handle. That day marked the first time he ever beat his father in a training match.
A glint of sunlight flashed from his spear’s point, reminding him of the gleam in his father’s eye when he batted aside a thrust aimed at his chest, closed the distance, and pressed the rubber tip of his training weapon to his father’s throat.
“Good,” the old man had said, smiling. “Very good, son.”
He smiled at the memory, feeling the familiar anticipation of hand-to-hand combat building in his gut. It was a good feeling, a release of worry and doubt, a strange sort of catharsis. In battle, Caleb could forget who he was, forget all he had lost, forget the pain and regret and worry for the future, and lose himself in the red mist of the melee.