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Amy and Joe sat on the station’s roof. It was a safe place to be outside at night, a place where they didn’t really have to worry about the creatures.
Joe spread out the picnic blanket as Amy got the food ready. He had cooked up some rabbit meat during the day, and Amy, though still learning, had made something close to being fresh baked bread. Joe sat on the blanket and popped open a bottle of wine. He smiled as he filled a glass for Amy and passed it to her. She took it even though she couldn’t drink it, and she pretended to be thankful for Joe’s sake.
He sipped at his wine as she looked him over. Amy was nervous about telling him. She had mixed feelings on the matter herself. Part of her was thrilled and overjoyed, but her rational mind questioned how wise it was to bring a child into this nightmare. She had to tell him though. It wasn’t as if she could hide it much longer, and he deserved to know. Amy figured she would never get a chance to do it more perfect than tonight.
She reached for his hand. He was glancing up at the stars. The sky was odd this evening, the stars different somehow. Amy placed a palm on his cheek and gently turned his face so she could look deep into his eyes. “Joe,” she said. “I have something to tell you…”
DEAD WEST
Prologue
“Run!” Mark shouted.
Brent’s legs pumped as he raced to catch up to the train and Mark’s outstretched hand. He could hear the growls of the dead behind him, but he didn’t dare glance over his shoulder to see how close they were. Instead he poured everything he had into a final burst of speed. Mark grabbed him and pulled him onto the train.
Brent collapsed, struggling for breath as Mark, standing above him, opened up on their pursuers with his Winchester. He picked off the closest ones, his rifle spitting out spent casings.
The train gained speed and the dead fell farther and farther behind.
“Sweet Lord,” Brent blurted out. “That was too close.”
Mark laughed, propping his weapon against the inner railing of the car. “It’s what you get for volunteering for this job.”
“Maybe,” Brent replied. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
He got to his feet and dusted himself off. “Damn. The dead aren’t supposed to be this close to the border yet. No one knew they’d overrun Bloomington already. Last time we sent out a recon party, they were two towns over.”
Mark nodded. “They’re coming. There’s no stopping them. I don’t care what anyone says—it’s only a matter of time until they make it to the East. Ain’t nothing gonna stop them. Not even the river.”
“Well, we ain’t goin’ down like those cavalry boys did. We’ll hold the line. We’ve got to.”
“You’re lying to yourself boy. The West belongs to those things now. We can’t guard the whole Mississippi River. Soon enough the dead will be across it and in the cities too.”
“How can you believe that?” Brent asked.
“Simple. I believe in God. This is the End Times. It’s gotta be. Hell on Earth and all that comes with it, boy. I’ve made my peace. Hope you’ve made your peace with Him too.”
Suddenly, Mark and Brent were tossed about as the train’s brakes began to squeal. They clutched the car’s rails, trying their best not to tumble off onto the tracks.
“What the hell?” Mark screamed as the train stopped. They could hear shouting from the steam engine.
Mark grabbed his rifle, which by some miracle hadn’t been lost on the tracks, then he and Brent hopped off the car and went to see what was happening. Several other soldiers from the train’s small contingent were standing around, cursing. A massive tree blocked the railway. It would take too long to remove the trunk and branches from the tracks.
Mark motioned for Brent, and the two approached Captain Stephenson, who stood among the men inspecting the tree.
“Are we running or standing?” Mark asked.
Stephenson whirled on them. “Soldier, you better watch your mouth or you’ll be dead before those rotting bastards ever get here.”
“Yes, sir,” Mark said, grinding his teeth. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
This was Stephenson’s first command behind the quarantine line. He was sweating under the pressure, forced with only two choices that were pretty much suicide. Finally, he looked Mark in the eye. “We’re standin’! I think it’s time we gave the dead back some of the hell they’ve given us.”
Stephenson addressed the thirty-five men standing around him. “Get the Gatling set up on the rear car. Make sure the damn gunner is somebody who’s used one before. Everybody else, load up with as much ammo as you can in your pockets and form a defensive firing line flanking that car. Let’s show those monsters the US Army won’t go down easy!”
Everyone took up their positions as extra guns were loaded and placed within easy reach. Mark manned the Gatling in the center of the line, and Brent, hunched on the dirt with his rifle aimed at the horizon, found himself missing the company of the gruff and burly old-timer.
The dead came into view. Hundreds of them stampeding towards the train and its small cluster of defenders.
“Hold you fire!” Mark shouted.
Stephenson shot him a glare but knew it was an order that needed to be given. “Aim for their heads!” he added reluctantly, giving a nod in Mark’s direction.
As soon as the dead entered firing range, the Gatling gun started blazing, tearing into the middle of their ranks. Everyone else tried to pick their shots more carefully, making sure the ones they aimed for wouldn’t be getting back up.
Not even the spinning barrels of the Gatling could slow the dead’s charge. They trampled the bodies of the fallen until they slammed into the defensive line without mercy. The line broke, half of the soldiers knocked to the ground under the gnashing teeth of the dead. A few tried to fight but died instantly as the dead overwhelmed them.
Grasping, eager hands yanked Mark off the car from behind the Gatling, and the old man disappeared in the sea of the dead.
Brent ran, tossing his empty rifle aside and jerking his Colt free from the holster on his belt. His feet crunched gravel as he darted down the length of the train. When he reached the fallen tree he knew there was no way in hell he could jump it. So he veered to the right and took off into the woods, with more than a dozen of dead giving chase.
Sweat rolled off his face and skin. In desperation, he hopped onto a tall tree and started to climb. Cold hands closed on his legs and ankles, and a set of yellow teeth cut through his uniform and into his thigh.
“God, forgive me,” Brent pleaded as he pressed the Colt to the side of his head. He pulled the trigger, and his limp form fell into the waiting mob below.
One
Grant looked up from the article he was composing as Edgar entered the room. He knew from the smirk on Edgar’s face whatever news the man was about to share would be bad. Though they’d worked together at Harper’s throughout the end of the Civil War, they’d never gotten along.
Edgar pulled out a chair and took a seat across from Grant without asking if he was intruding.
Grant met Edgar’s eyes as the man stared at him. “May I help you?”
“I just wanted to tell you personally you’re being reassigned. The paper needs someone out in the field to cover the new war raging in the West from the frontlines and—”
“This isn’t a war,” Grant interjected. “Men aren’t killing men. It’s a plague. They’re just quarantining off half the bloody country to contain it.”
Edgar cleared his throat. “Call it whatever you want, Grant, but to the paper and the government it’s a war. The plague that’s ravaged the frontier is working its way here, and if the army can’t stop it then God help us all.” Edgar reclined in his chair, tipping it off the floor. “Almost the entire army is stationed along the length of the Mississippi River, trying to hold the border between us and the dead. Good men are dying out there every day. To me, that’s a war too.”
“Wh
at do you want from me, Edgar? Did you just want to see how I would react when you told me I was going?”
Edgar ignored him. “The 112th regiment is about to make a push westward to see how bad things really are on the other side, and to exterminate as many of those things as they can. I want you to go with them. As I said, we need someone out there so that people here can know what’s happening in the West. You’ve been in the field before. Hell, if I recall correctly, you claim you actually fought in some of the battles you covered near the end of the last war.”
“Not by choice,” Grant muttered.
“Go home and pack your bags. You’ll be leaving first thing in the morning to meet up with the 112th and the main force of the push west. I’ll have all the papers you’ll need ready by then.”
“Yes, sir,” Grant answered coldly.
Edgar got up and vanished into the halls of Harper’s, leaving Grant in peace.
He sat still for a moment, letting his new assignment sink in. If even half of the reports over the past few months were true, he was heading into Hell itself. The dead owned the West now. Allegedly, some tribes of Indians still held out against them, but those stories were unconfirmed and off the record. The paper didn’t want people believing that savages could outlast civilized man, because without a doubt the western states were lost. The plague had swept through them like wildfire on a prairie, turning everyone who contracted it into a walking corpse intent only on devouring the living and spreading the plague.
Many people believed this was the End of Days as described in the Bible. New churches opened their doors here in the East every day, and revivals seemed a nonstop occurrence. Grant was not a religious man and the whole mess stunk of desperation, but even he had to admit this was like nothing the human race had ever faced in all of recorded history.
He pushed his chair back from his desk and walked over to collect his coat from the hook by the door. If there was any real hope left to be found, he would find it. If nothing else, his readers deserved the truth; he could at least give them that.
Five days later Grant arrived in Franklin. The 112th had beaten him there and were already well prepared for the East’s first major counteroffensive against the plague. The plan, if it could be called that, was simply to cross the Mississippi, push as far west as possible and kill everything they came across, then fall back to reinforce the border until another offensive could be launched. The military command knew the dead didn’t breed. They wanted to thin out their numbers and, step by step, expand the border westward until they reached the Pacific, making the US whole once more.
The 112th was just one of many regiments sent across the river at various points, but it was newly formed and composed of mainly green troops who’d never seen combat. Grant wondered if Edgar had assigned him to that particular regiment because they were the least likely to make it back.
He shook the dark thoughts from his head as he marched up the steps of the town’s administrative building, headed to report in to the regiment’s commanding officer, General Peter Alves. Alves had the reputation of being a hard ass who got things done, a competent leader despite his personality and lack of social skills. He’d climbed the ranks quickly, but always seemed to end up with the worst or most dangerous missions on his plate.
As soon as Grant walked in, a young man dressed in an aide’s uniform rushed to meet him. “Mr. Grant?” he asked, outstretching his hand.
“Yes.” Grant shook with him. “How did you know?”
“You were expected, sir. Besides, you sure ain’t from around here. No one here wears clothes as fancy as yours. You just had to be from New York, sir.”
Grant laughed. “I’m here to report in to General Alves.”
“I know, sir. The general’s busy though. I’m sorry. However, he did leave orders as to where you’re being accommodated.”
“Accommodated?”
“Sorry, sir. I mean as to which platoon you’ll be traveling with.”
Grant felt his stomach turn. The general was putting him off in more ways than one. “You mean I won’t be traveling with the general himself?”
“No. Let’s see… You’re being placed under the care of Sergeant Robert Hank. He’s a veteran, sir. The general said he’d be more than able to not only ensure your safety while you’re with us, but also be able to show you what it’s really like to be fighting the dead.”
“Wonderful.” Grant faked a smile. Things just kept getting better and better. “Where can I find this Sergeant Hank?”
“He and his men are in the barracks just across town. Do you want me to escort you there?”
“No,” Grant said, and he turned and walked out of the building. He was just about done being cast aside, and he was having a tough time holding his anger in check. Surely, he figured, things couldn’t get any worse.
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The dead thing raised its head to look at the surrounding soldiers, straining against the ropes that held it to the post in the middle of the training field.
“Fire!” Hank ordered.
A chorus of rifle cracks erupted as Winchesters spat empty shell casings and soldiers pumped fresh rounds into their chambers. When the cacophony ended, the dead thing still twitched and rolled its head back and forth, emitting a low, hoarse moan.
Hank spun to face the dozen new recruits who’d just riddled the thing’s body with holes. “What the hell’s the problem here?” he asked, screaming in the face of the closest private. “I ordered you men to kill that thing! Why isn’t it dead?”
No one answered.
“You want to know why?” Hank drew his revolver and put a bullet into the dead thing’s forehead. Its body slumped, limp against the post. “You didn’t shoot the damn thing in the head!” Hank pointed across the river at the other shore, far off in the distance. “And when you’re over there, if you don’t shoot for the head you won’t just be wasting ammo and my time, you’ll be dead just like it.”
Hank lowered his voice. “A headshot is the only way to take one of those things down and make sure it stays that way.” He cut his normal sermon short as a man in an expensive suit approached the training area. “All of you back here in an hour. We’ll try this shit again then. Dismissed!”
The privates scattered in fear of their sergeant’s rage, and the man in the suit clapped. “Commendable speech,” he said, not offering to shake hands. “I’m Jacob Grant from Harper’s; I was told you’d be taking care of me when we go across.”
“You’re going to have to take care of yourself, mister. These greenhorns ain’t worth a load of cow dung yet. It’ll be all I can do to take care of myself.”
“Nonetheless, I suppose I’m going to be a part of your platoon now, according to General Alves.” Grant’s eyes came to rest on the corpse tied to the post; it looked as if it had been rotting for days. “My God… That thing really took a dozen rounds and was still alive?”
“No, it wasn’t alive. But it was still hungry. They’ll keep coming at you as long as they can move.”
“But it’s dead now?”
“Dead as a doornail. Destroy their brain and they’re restin’ peaceful again like God intended.”
Grant kept staring at the corpse.
“Relax,” Hank assured him. “The only way you can get the plague is if one of them bites you or scratches you up pretty good.” He looked Grant up and down. “You sure you’re up for this, newsboy?”
“Somebody has to be. People have a right to know the truth about all this. Maybe then we can make sense of it all.”
Hank laughed. “Right.” He realized he was still holding his revolver and tucked it into the holster on his belt. “We ship out at first light, newsboy. I imagine you’ve already been on the road a while, so I suggest you try to get some rest. There may not be any for a long time once we get started. I’ll show you where you can bed down.”
The two men walked away from the corpse, leaving it dripping blood onto the field.
Two
As the sun rose above the Mississippi River, a line of heavy streamers and ferries discharged their living cargo onto the western bank. A few dozen cavalrymen hit the shore first, galloping off into the trees to make sure the surrounding area was clear of the dead; a line of infantrymen followed off the boats. Over two hundred strong, the men fanned out along the shore, taking aim at the tree line to create a safe perimeter for the rest of the regiment to come on land. The whole area was a flurry of activity. Officers ran back and forth, barking orders as Gatling gun emplacements were set up and everyone dug in. Soon the beachhead was secure, with no sign of the enemy. Over a thousand soldiers stood waiting for further orders, eager to push forward.
General Alves and his superiors were well aware this would not be a conventional war. There would be no organized resistance from the enemy. The regiment was to split its allotment of personnel into smaller search-and-destroy platoons of fifty or more men. These platoons would fan apart in a sweeping motion, moving westward ahead of the main force. Many of the platoons would be assigned a specific region or town to investigate along the way before meeting at a pre-established rally point and returning to the main force.
To form up their platoon, Grant and his men fell in with another squad led by an officer named Simon Wayne. Wayne was a distinguished graduate of West Point and would be in charge of their unit with Hank as his second. The group consisted of fifty men total, and their assigned destination was a town named Canton.
Finally the orders came and the regiment was on the move, breaking apart as it marched. As Grant’s platoon broke off to head for their objective, he took one last look at the shrinking body of the main force, hoping whomever had thought up this operation had known what they were doing.
The platoon was over a day out and two days from Canton before they found their first sign of the dead. A corpse lay in the middle of the road, sprawled out beside a wagon, which looked to have been headed east before it lost a wheel. The body was badly decomposed, but one could see that more than the birds had been at it. Pieces of the man lay everywhere, as if they’d been carried off, gnawed on, and discarded. A young private named Ben fell to his knees near Grant, and his lunch splattered the dirt road. Many of the men in the platoon covered their mouths while others stood strong with disciplined faces of stone.
Season of Rot Page 16