by James Cook
So Blake walked the line. He stayed out of trouble at school, quietly keeping his grades up. He steered clear of the gangs, being careful not to get on their bad side. Which is not to say he never broke the law—he did what he had to do to survive—but he was careful about it.
Then came graduation, and the recruiter’s office, and the Army, and his tearful, dutiful mother telling him to shake the dust from his feet and write as soon as he got the chance.
She died a few years later from a stroke. Blake had been sending her money every month, hoping that between the two of them they could save enough for her to move to a better neighborhood. She never spent a dime of the money.
“I had a choice to make,” Blake said. “I could succumb to hate, and anger, and spend the rest of my life being bitter, or I could do what my momma always told me to do when things were bad.”
He looked at me then, tears in his dark, thoughtful eyes. “She said to me, ‘Baby, you just got to smile. No matter what the world throws at you, you just got to smile.’ So that’s what I do. No matter what the world throws at me, I just keep right on smiling. I used to see it as revenge, but then I got older and realized that’s a foolish way to look at things. Revenge never did no good for anybody. The world ain’t got nothing against me. What happened, happened. I just got to rise above it and move on. And that’s what I do.”
“So where you see this going, the two of you?” Blake asked, interrupting my thoughts.
“Hell if I know, man. I’m just taking it a day at a time.”
He looked out toward the hotel and the dim orange dots of campfires in the parking lot. Humvees patrolled and rifles cracked in the distance as the troops on watch kept the infected at bay. His customary smile faded, replaced by a fearful solemnity that hurt me to see on his jovial face. “Guess that’s all anybody can do right now, things being the way they are.”
We walked in the dark for a while, each in his own thoughts. As we passed by Sophia’s sleeping form, I stopped to watch her. Blake stopped as well, back turned, giving me a moment to myself. He was good that way. Perceptive. The kind of guy who understood things without needing someone to say it outright.
“What’s going to happen to us, do you think?” I asked.
I heard Blake’s boot scrape the metal roof as he turned and walked over to me. His hand was warm on my shoulder as he stood beside me, voice close to my ear. “Caleb, I don’t know. You’re a grown man now, so I ain’t gonna bullshit you. Things are bad. Real bad. Worst I ever seen.”
“I know that much.”
“I know you do. What I’m saying is, I think it’s going to get worse before it gets better. I think we’re in the early stages of something long, and dark, and terrible. If we want to get through it, we got to be strong. We got to stick together like family. You understand?”
I nodded, and did.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s keep moving. Best lesson I ever learned—when in doubt, keep moving.”
The half-moon was clear the next few hours. No clouds obscured its shine on an oasis of green in a sea of charred black. At four in the morning, after an impossibly long watch, I woke Mike and Lance and waited while they cleared their heads and armed themselves. Afterward, I ambled back to my bedroll, back to Sophia. She stirred as I lay down and draped an arm around her.
“Hey,” she muttered. “Ev’thing okay?”
I kissed her cheek. “Everything’s fine, pretty lady. Go back to sleep.”
She smiled. I closed my eyes to the stars and the moon and languished in her sweet, humid, feminine warmth.
Even the gunshots and roar of engines could not keep me awake.
THIRTY-FOUR
“Come on,” Dad said, shaking my arm. “Spear practice.”
I sat up and blinked against the early light of dawn. To the east, the sun was an angry scarlet eye peeking over the hills in the distance. Low banks of clouds rolled overhead in varying shades of red, orange, pale yellow, and finally blue that darkened to steel gray in the west. The air was cool, but heavy with humidity and the promise of higher temperatures to come.
Sophia had rolled away from me in the night and lay curled up under her thin blanket. I brushed the hair from her face and kissed her cheek. She stirred, sighed, and smiled. I kissed her again before I left.
Dad had set up a fast-rope descent to the parking lot. When I arrived, he slid down it like the practiced expert he was, then tossed his harness up to me. Although I was quite a bit taller than him, we were about the same through the hips. The harness fit me just fine. I repeated the process, albeit without quite the same grace and fluidity.
The bucket-equipped HEMTT was already on site, breaking the infected’s bodies by crushing them, then scraping them into a pile in the middle of the pavement. It was gruesome work, but effective. The parking lot was almost clear. Two Bradleys circled the operation, big chain-guns aimed at the thicker knots of undead.
“Let’s find someplace a bit more peaceful,” Dad said. I nodded in agreement and followed him to one of the Humvees. We drove back to 281 and pulled into the parking lot of the hotel where the rest of the soldiers and civilians had spent the night. Evidently, none of them were awake yet except for the guards on patrol. The place was quiet, only a few bleary-eyed troops and roving vehicles on hand to disturb the early morning silence.
Dad pulled around the back of the building near the service entrance where there was a narrow stretch of cracked asphalt, a half-full dumpster, silent AC units, and not much else. To our right was an expanse of slightly overgrown lawn roughly two acres wide.
“Looks like a good spot,” I said. Dad agreed. He drove the Humvee over the curb, parked, and got out.
The old man—who really was not old at all—opened the back so I could crawl inside and dig out our two rubber-tipped practice spears. When I tossed him his full-length faux weapon, he caught it one handed, spun it deftly around his body, and assumed a fighting stance, knees slightly bent, haft close to his hips, rubber tip pointed in my direction.
My own weapon was only half as long, the handle shortened to my specifications. The blade on the end of mine was wider, heavier, and longer than the one my father wielded, although also formed of the same vulcanized rubber. I held it with my hand choked near the blade, the bulk of the handle protruding over my shoulder. In the years since I’d developed this unique fighting style, Dad had never quite sorted out all my tricks.
“You’re too traditional,” I said for the umpteenth time as we circled each other. “Too stiff. You need to innovate.”
“Don’t worry, kid,” he said, a determined look on his face. “I’ll figure you out yet.”
“Why are we still fighting with spears anyway?” I asked. “Wouldn’t knives or machetes make more sense?”
The answer was predictable; I had heard it a thousand times. “Spears were the infantry rifle of the ancient world,” he said. “You’ve probably read volumes about swords, but the truth is spears were the deciding factor in countless battles throughout history. They’re easy to forge, durable, and extend a warrior’s reach by meters without requiring an undue amount of resources to manufacture. Swords, axes, and maces are pretty to look at, but spears, halberds, and billhooks were the preferred weapons of the soldiers of old. And with good reason.”
I nodded along, too tired to argue the merits of modern weapons over ancient. “All right then. Let’s see what you got.”
I barely had time to dodge the tip of his weapon as it whipped past my head. One second my father was standing twelve feet away, and the next he had closed the distance, his spear extended in a two-handed grip. Dad was many things, but slow was not one of them.
Fortunately for me, my boxing coach always insisted I learn and practice the fundamentals of head movement. It is less about being fast than it is about understanding body mechanics, watching your opponent, and knowing where the next attack is coming from. My dad was a competent boxer, among other fighting styles, but he did not start as early
as I did. The muscle memory was not as deeply ingrained in him as it was in me. So when he swept the spear to the side after missing with the initial thrust, I had already ducked it and circled away.
“Nice,” he said, grinning. He adjusted his footwork and began closing in on my right. I switched my spear to the other side, having long ago learned the value of being able to fight with either hand.
Keeping my head low and my feet moving, I harassed him with eerie-looking over-the-shoulder thrusts with my spear’s shortened handle, aimed at batting his weapon aside.
“How the hell do you do that?” he muttered, backing off. “It’s like you have a scorpion tail or some shit.”
Rather than answer, I used the distraction to aim a kick at the mid-point of his spear shaft, closed the distance, whipped my weapon forward, and let it slide through my hand. When I felt the slightly flared pommel hit the edge of my palm, I ducked, leapt forward, switched hands, and rolled to my right.
As expected, my father predicted the kick and the thrust, and was ready with a counter-attack. He let his arms go limp to absorb the blow to the spear, executed a spin move like a dancer’s pirouette, and slashed at the spot where my head should have been.
But I wasn’t there.
Instead, the last second dive-and-roll had allowed me to pop up behind him and gently press the blunted rubber edge of my practice spear to his kidney. “Checkmate,” I said.
“I hope you enjoyed that,” he said, smiling over his shoulder. “It’s the last time you’ll get away with it.”
He whipped his spear through a blurring figure-eight motion, nearly knocking my weapon out of my hands and forcing me back a few steps. He pressed the attack, the wooden hafts of our spears clacking loudly against one another. Seven moves later I lay on my back, disarmed, the point of my father’s practice weapon aimed at my throat.
“Okay,” I chuckled. “Point taken.”
“No pun intended?” He helped me to my feet, smiling broadly.
We faced each other, bowed, and set to in earnest.
No more messing around.
An hour later, we had fought twenty bouts. I won nine. Two were a draw. That put us even. Dad called a halt to the action, leaning heavily on his spear, breath coming quickly. I tossed my weapon to the ground and put my hands on my knees. There was a swelling over Dad’s right eye where I had caught him with an elbow in an attempt to knock him off balance. It didn’t work, and he had skewered me in the ribs for my trouble. The attack left a bruise under my arm I would feel for a week. Other than that, a few minor scrapes aside, we were uninjured.
“You’re getting better,” he said. “Or maybe I’m just slowing down.”
I stood up and stretched, feeling a few vertebrae pop back into place. “If this is what you look like slow,” I said, “I’d hate to have fought you in your prime.”
We both jumped when we heard clapping behind us. Spinning around, I spotted Morgan standing on a second-floor balcony, applauding.
“Nice work, fellas,” he called down. “That was some hard-core kung fu shit. The hell did you learn how to do that?”
I smiled and was about to say something witty, but then I caught my father’s disapproving glare from the corner of my eye. “How long have you been standing there?” he asked, irritation in his voice.
Morgan held up his hands. “Sorry, man, didn’t mean to snoop. The clickity-clacking woke me up. Came outside to see what the noise was all about.”
Dad glared a moment longer, then motioned for me to get in the Humvee. “Come on. Let’s go check on the others.”
I gave Morgan an apologetic shrug, then followed.
“What was that all about?” I asked as we drove away. In response, rather than driving toward the brewery, Dad pulled down a side street and stopped. He left the engine running, the air conditioner laboring against the increasing temperature outside.
“Caleb, there are a few facts of life you need to understand,” he said. “Things I’ve never discussed with you because I didn’t think it would be necessary.”
“Okay,” I said warily. “Like what?”
Dad breathed out through his nose, staring frustratedly out the window. I thought about Lauren, and the trouble he’d been having with her, the tension and arguments and distance between them, and my heart went out to him.
“Dad,” I said gently. “What’s going on? Talk to me.”
He kept his gaze averted for a while, then said, “Caleb, you don’t understand who and what you are. What you represent. What you’re capable of.”
“Okay …”
He reached out and closed his calloused fingers over my forearm with a grip like iron. My father was not a big man, but his strength was a force of nature, muscles hard as oak rippling under sun-browned skin.
“All the training you’ve had,” he said, “the skills you’ve learned … it’s rare, Caleb. It makes you dangerous. People like us, people who can do the things we can do, we’re going to be in high demand very soon. There will be factions vying to round up as many of us as they can get their hands on. The world we knew is over, now. A new world is being born, and it is going to be a dark and violent place. There are people out there who will try to use you if they can. You can’t let them. 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.”
I stared at him for a long time, saying nothing. I had always known my upbringing was unique; the training I had received from Dad, Mike, Blake and Tyrel was something most people never experienced. But it had never dawned on me until that moment just how different it made me. How dangerous.
I had been trained from the age of five to be a super soldier.
I could shoot as well as any Special Forces operator. I was as good a sniper as anything the Marine Corps had ever produced. I had trained for over ten years in jiu jitsu, boxing, wrestling, krav maga, and various weapons styles. Room entries and cover and concealment and combat tactics were as familiar to me as tying my shoes. Not to mention my knowledge of fieldcraft, lock picking, explosives, and a host of other skills.
If I were looking for someone to exploit, I’d be pretty damned high on my list.
Dad saw understanding register on my face and let go of my forearm. “Do you see now, son? You have to be careful. Never reveal more about yourself than absolutely necessary. Do what you have to do to stay alive, but tell no one about your past. Understood?”
“All right,” I said. “I get it, Dad. I really do.”
He stared at me searchingly, and after a few seconds he said, “I believe you.”
The morning sun was bright over his shoulder when I looked at him. “Really?”
“Yes. Because I know you, son, and I can read you like a book.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“And I can see how scared you are.”
THIRTY-FIVE
Where highways 281 and 290 came together outside of Austin, the northbound lanes were a snarled mess of cars and corpses.
When the people fleeing the capital of Texas realized they weren’t getting anywhere, they jumped the median and tried to use the southbound lanes to escape. The result was a wide, stalled parking lot that spilled out onto the shoulder for dozens of yards in every direction. At some point the infected had shown up, and it was all over but the dying.
I was out on point with Dad, Mike, Blake, and a couple of combat engineers when we made the discovery. Tyrel had stayed behind due to his injuries, along with Sophia, Lauren, Lance, and Lola.
Morgan had decided the best use of our skills was to have us scout the way ahead. We surveyed the scene, then radioed back to the convoy. One of Morgan’s senior sergeants acknowledged and told us to stand by. Shortly thereafter, the Bradleys, a couple of HEMTTs, and the Abrams showed up, along with a dozen troops in a deuce-and-a-half in case infantry support was nee
ded.
After they arrived, Morgan got on the radio and asked us to draw away as many infected as we could while his people worked to clear the road. The rest of the day consisted of my group off-roading in our Humvees and leading the undead around in circles while the troops dragged dead bodies from vehicles, put transmissions in neutral, and stood clear as the heavy armor pushed wrecks aside.
By nightfall, we had made it all of thirty miles and the infected had bitten four troops. But we had reached a point where we could use side roads to parallel the highway, which would make for faster transit. Despite the long, hot hours the convoy had just endured, Captain Morgan elected to press on a few hours into the night.
Tired as we were, no one argued. The moans of the San Antonio horde were close enough to carry to us on the wind.
The four bitten soldiers were kept under observation in the back of a truck for a couple of hours until it became clear their condition would not improve. When the medics gave their final diagnosis, Morgan ordered the convoy to a halt and the men were led out of sight under heavy guard. Three of them looked resigned to their fate, stumbling along and convulsing in the throes of their infection. The fourth, however, struggled and screamed and kicked and begged his brothers in arms to let him go, to let him run for it and take his chances. His words fell on deaf ears.
His voice sounded familiar, so before he was out of sight, I raised my scope to get a better look.
It was Johansen.
While I had not enjoyed my first meeting with the man, I did not wish him to die as one of the infected. Come to think of it, I would not have wished that on anyone.
About a hundred other people and I, including the survivors from the RV encampment, watched in silence as the doomed men were led away. Johansen’s increasingly panicked screams carried to us over the crest of a hill until the boom of a pistol echoed through the woods.
The shouting stopped.
Seconds later, there were three near-simultaneous cracks. Shortly thereafter, a few men lowered a small bucket loader from the back of a HEMTT and drove it in the direction of the shots. Half an hour later, their work finished, they returned to the convoy, faces drawn and somber. No one tried to speak to them. Morgan came over the radio in a quiet voice and ordered to convoy to get under way.