by S. P. Durnin
The Sunset’s proprietor nodded with confidence. “We’ve managed to keep ourselves alive for months now by scrounging what we need from the surrounding areas, a few more days shouldn’t be difficult at all.”
Foster puffed his stogie. “What are your options for transportation?”
“We have a handful of Cougar Armored Fighting Vehicles, a large number of deuce and a half transport trucks, and a even a few Maxpro MRAPs, but the latter are in use within high-density areas around Saint Louis. That’s why we make do with the MOGs for scouting trips and contacting new survivor colonies.” Kirk traced his finger along the lines of the map. “It may take several trips, but getting our forces and dependents here shouldn’t be that difficult. The byways are rapidly falling to disrepair, that’s why part of my assignment is to confirm usable roads to the Southwest. We’ve mapped routes that detour around major areas of dead concentration here to Langley, and—”
Jake entered as Kirk was explaining the logistics of moving eight-hundred people to Mooney. Foster observed his return and, noting the expression on the younger man’s face, casually stubbed his cigar out on one of the plates atop the table. While Mooney asked Kirk about the aforementioned ‘infested areas’, the graying warrior discretely pulled the Glock from the Blackhawk Serpa holster at his hip. George kept it loaded and ready to go—even prior to the dead rising—and concealed the pistol to the side of his right buttock in an easy grip as O’Connor approached.
George had just known something smelled. He had decades of experience when it came dealing with lowlifes and liars and, from the get-go, the good lieutenant set his “bullshit-meter” buzzing loudly. Save for O’Connor and the rest of his companions, virtually no-one in Langley had the first clue about George, largely due to the man’s off-colored sense of humor and almost ridiculous lack of tact, and he liked it that way.
The fact was, in his younger days, George Montgomery Foster had been one of the elite. A member of a worldwide fraternity who’d engaged in everything from airborne assaults with Rangers, to maritime infiltrations with Navy Seals, to clandestine black-bag operations on the orders of the Secretary of Defense. He’d been judge, jury and—when necessary—an executioner of lowlifes around the globe. Everywhere from Cape Town to Cabo to Cairo. He didn’t drink his martinis “shaken, not stirred,” but he’d damn sure spent a major part of his life playing cloak-and-dagger games in truly remote areas most hadn’t even heard of. Especially during the Cold War. That coldest of wars.
Truth be told, Foster was lucky he’d managed to survive until the dead rose. He’d been both respected and feared by the hierarchy in his own chain of command, and had heard whispers in “the Community”—his safety net of salty, old naval master chiefs and hard-nosed, retired Marine Corps gunnery sergeants—alluding that someone up the food chain was attempting to have criminal charges brought against him. Evidently certain “preventative actions” he’d been a part of, eighty-one miles north of Kiev in the Ukrane, years back—weren’t looked upon in favorable ways by some of the useless pencil-pushers in office.
Those higher-ups hadn’t actually known what the Russians had been up to under that power plant though. If they had, they’d have ordered the city nuked from orbit. People thought zombies were bad—and they were—but what Foster encountered beneath that now-abandoned city near Belarus had been horrifying to say the least.
He had no illusions: If what slumbered there ever woke up, that would definitely be it for the human race.
Some monsters were just too big to fight.
Here and now however, from the look on O’Connor’s face, good Lieutenant Kirk was about to have a bad day.
“I’m also sure I can convince my superior to greatly fortify Langley’s walls, pretty much first thing.” Kirk explained, glancing briefly at Jake as he approached and giving him an absent smile. “They’ve evidently done their job so far, but there are massive hordes out there. Some number in the millions, and—”
Jake came up beside Mooney and without pausing, swiftly brought the KABAR knife hidden behind his left forearm down on Kirk’s hand. The tanto easily penetrated flesh and bone before spearing half its length through the tabletop, effectively pinning the surprised lieutenant’s appendage to the hardwood surface. After a moment of shock, the sensation of having an eight-inch, razor-edged length of high carbon steel shoved through his flesh made it up Kirk’s nerves and slammed into his thalamus. When his pain receptors lit up in earnest, he screamed and fell to his knees beside the table while Mooney stared on in horror.
“Your superiors.” Jake knelt and used one hand to grab the lieutenant’s jaw and bring is face up. The other was still firmly gripping his tanto. “Your superiors are exactly what I want to talk about.”
Kirk dry-heaved as O’Connor twisted the knife, but still had the presence of mind to reach for his Beretta. His movement halted abruptly as the cold muzzle of Foster’s Glock pressed forcibly against the exterior of his left ear.
“You’ll wanna’ keep real still there.” George told him, eyes flat and empty as a serpents. “My trigger finger’s getting a’ little iffy in my old age. Been havin’ spasms, so it tends ta’ twitch when I get excited.”
Fighting against the nauseating pain, Kirk slowly moved his hand away from his weapon and kept still as George relieved him of it.
Mooney was, in a word, freaked. “What the hell? Are you fucking crazy?”
“A little,” Foster told him calmly, “But we’re not stupid either. What’s the scoop, boy?”
Jake was still focused on Kirk trying not to puke on the dining room floor. “The lieutenant didn’t bother informing us about a few details regarding his “superiors,” and their preferred mode of operation.”
Kirk glared at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Eyes hot, Jake jiggled his knife and Kirk screamed again.
“Jesus! Stop” Mooney moved to restrain the unruly-haired man and Foster stepped between them.
“Have we steered ya’ wrong yet?” he asked.
Mooney’s eyes were wide, but he didn’t move. “You can’t torture him! Jesus! What…?”
“The boy has good instincts. He wouldn’t a’ turned Captain America here into a pin cushion without a damn good reason.” George continued to mollify the near-frantic hotel owner. “I trust him, so you just gotta trust me.”
“Don’t bother trying to go for your radio. Your men, minus Mark Weaver? All nine are locked up, nice and secure by now.” Jake looked at Kirk and snapped, “How was Jefferson City?”
Kirk snarled and kept quiet.
“That’s alright, I’ll tell them all about it. When the zombies took St. Louis, what was left of the population fled west to Jefferson City. It made sense, because Missouri State Senate is there, butted right up against an Amtrack line and the Missouri River. There was the 138th Forward Support Company, the 835th Combat Sustainment Support Battalion, and the 229th Medical Battalion of the National Guard based there too, so after the bridges over the Missouri on Routes 63 and 54 were demolished, it would’ve been pretty secure. But there was a difference of opinion about what to do after that, wasn’t there?” Jake waggled the blade again and Kirk grimaced. “One Senator Robert Quinn of Illinois was the problem. He didn’t take kindly to being shunted onto the back burner. Since his own territory had been written off, and he was basically without authority in Missouri, he used his influence with a few dissatisfied commanders and began recruiting his own little force from the units and survivors in Jefferson City. Then, once he had a sizable following—to which he’d promised all kinds of things—he convinced his fellow senators to authorize an enclave to the south.”
“Fort Leonard Wood.” George supplied.
“That’s right. It was supposed to be a secondary outpost, mainly used for supply and logistical resources, but then a horde stumped into Jefferson City.” O’Connor was spitting th
e words from his lips as if the subject left a foul taste in his mouth. “They could’ve repelled the creatures if the units at Leonard Wood had actually responded to their broadcasts. Instead? Quinn had his men shell Jefferson City’s fortifications. They blew the shit out of the northern defenses and let the zombies in. Then they shelled the enclave proper. No one made it out.”
Foster glowered at the lieutenant. “You sorry-ass punk. You, and your superiors, are a fuckin’ disgrace.”
“You don’t know anything about it old man!” Kirk managed to bluster. “We’re putting things right. The politicians and their lap-dog scientists destroyed everything. They’re the ones who created whatever super-bug created the goddamn zombies! We’re going to build civilization back up again, the right way this time!”
O’Connor took a firm grip on Kirk’s left ear and until his face came up. “Wow! You’re going to make a better world! That’s why Quinn came up with a breeding program, huh?”
“What?” Mooney’s face went white.
Jake shoved the Lieutenant against the table his hand was still spiked to, causing Kirk to cry out again. “In this utopia our friend here is helping bring about, women of child-bearing age—and just so there’s no mistake, I’m speaking of females from sixteen on up—are just property. They’re kept separate from the men in pens. Oh, they’re provided every comfort: food, water, even heated tents and barracks. But let one try to leave, or make a fuss when she’s on the roster that night in the “morale tent”? Yeah, I know all about your new civilization’s fringe benefits, Kirk. What I can’t figure out is how the hell Quinn managed to sell what amounts to rape to so many soldiers. Under normal circumstances, they’d be the first ones to stomp a guy that wouldn’t take no for an answer into paste. How did that happen?”
When Kirk didn’t answer, George pushed O’Connor away and knelt in front of the cringing man. “Lieutenant, I’m gonna give you one chance—just one—to tell me what I want to know. Then? I’m gonna get creative.”
The fixer stood and reached into the ever present mechanic’s bag riding his hip. He took out the following items, placing them carefully on the table near Kirk’s trapped hand: A hand-held propane torch, a pair of garden snips, a flat-head screwdriver, and—finally—a potato peeler.
Mooney looked ill. “A potato peeler? What could you possibly do…?”
“About what you’d think.” Foster’s eyes never left their prisoner. “Now. Weigh it.”
“You wouldn’t-” Kirk began.
“Oh, goody. A tough guy. Alright, let’s try it like this. The first thing I’ll do is have these two fellas hold yer’ sorry ass down and I’ll water-board you. ‘Course, I wouldn’t actually use water. I’d just take a leak on yer’ face through the handy tablecloth—currently pinned under your hand—after I wrap it around you head. That’ll just be to show you Who’s in charge, you understand. Then,” Foster went on with a smile, “I’ll use that handy screwdriver right here and start workin’ it under yer’ toenails. Then yer’ fingernails. Once we’re through the preliminaries, I’ll move onto the snips. Don’t worry, I’ll get ‘em nice and hot with my blowtorch there before I take the tips offa’ every one of yer’ fingers. That way the blades will cauterize the cuts and ya’ won’t bleed out. Then we’ll start the real fun.”
Kirk’s mouth hung open and his eyes were quite large as George picked up the potato peeler and glanced at it fondly.
“Do ya’ know how painful it is ta’ have yer skin peeled off? I’ve heard it compared ta’ havin’ yer’ body parts dipped into a vat of hot acid, one at a time. Slowly. At least, when the peel-ee is able to stop screamin’ long enough to engage in intelligent conversation, and not—”
“Whatdoyouwanttoknow?” Kirk’s words rushed out.
“Ah, see? Now we’re communicatin’.” Foster pointed to the writer.
“When are the first of your people supposed to arrive?” Jake asked pointedly.
Lieutenant Kirk licked his lips. “It will take at best nine days to—”
Foster picked up the screwdriver and blew at its tip.
“Uh. I mean they’ll be here day after tomorrow,” Kirk amended quickly.
Sweat broke out on Mooney’s brow. “What? You said you and your team had to return with word before anything would happen!”
“That was what I was ordered to say. In reality, our forces had to flee Leonard Wood three days ago.” Kirk’s gaze flicked from Mooney to George and back again. “The fort lost contact with its observation post at the edge of Saint Louis and sent another unit to check on its status. We received word about it just after we reported in about a large fire we caught the aftermath of up in Vanita and—”
Jake stiffened.
The gas station! He thought.
“Everyone in the observation post was dead, and recon team almost got swept up by a massive horde working its way west. Their numbers were projected to be close to thirty thousand and Senator Quinn ordered immediate evacuation of the Fort. Virtually everything we’ve got is on its way here.”
That got the three men’s attention quickly.
“Eight hundred.” Mooney’s face paled again.
“There’s no way we can fight that many.” Jake’s stomach headed for China by way of the center of the earth. “A force that size would roll right over the barricades like they weren’t even there.”
“They wouldn’t have to,” Foster told him, still giving Kirk a look that held barely-restrained mayhem. “They shelled Jefferson City, remember? Well, they could easily do the same to us.”
Mooney wiped his mouth with a nervous hand. “But they want Langley, don’t they? If they destroy the town, wreck the barriers, wouldn’t that just make more work for them?”
“With a group that big? It wouldn’t take long ta’ repair the defenses.” Foster growled out. “It’s not like they’d have ta’ breech both sides of town. Only one or the other. There aren’t enough people ta’ hold either of the fortifications against a large attacking force. That’s why Rae’s been so determined ta’ get the buses finished. A good sized horde would eventually bash its way in here with us. Now think about what eight hundred fear-motivated fighters are capable of.”
The lieutenant knelt, shuddering and gripping his own forearm, trying not to move his wounded hand. “You people need to understand, you don’t have a choice. We’re the only chance this country has left. The East Coast is dead, and the Mid-West is no better. The only refuge left east of the Rockies is down in Texas, and from everything we’ve heard they’re just out for themselves. The old government is squatting in California, strengthening their borders and sitting pretty behind the mountains. And they’re doing nothing! They left us here! Abandoned us! Why should we stay loyal to people like that?”
“I don’t know, maybe because you took a fucking oath?” Foster bent and put his nose almost to Kirk’s. “You know the one. It went I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic? That I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same?”
Kirk sneered. “In case you didn’t notice, our country’s dead. Eaten. Senator Quinn and the General Hess are going to make a new one. A better one-”
“Hess?” George demanded. “General Winston Hess?”
Though he remained silent, Jake saw the pride in Kirk’s eyes.
Foster went still.
It was rather frightening, Jake had to admit. While there was no overt change in the older man’s appearance, the author felt a definite thrill of fear race up his back as he straightened and showed the lieutenant his back. At that moment, George Foster was the most dangerous thing in Langley and it showed.
“We need to vacate, soonest,” he told them with frightening calm. “Winston Alexander Hess was a dangerous, arrogant, back-biting piece a’ shit even before the zombies. I can’t see the world going ta’ shit improving his p
ersonality.”
Mooney took as step back at the expression on George’s face. “Are you afraid of him?”
Foster laughed. “Of Winston? Not likely. Of what he’ll order his troops ta’ do when they get here? You bet yer’ ass. He’s ruthless. He’ll sacrifice his men in a heartbeat if it means winning a fight, and it’ll be all about numbers when they get here. He has more. Way more. It’s a fight we can’t win.”
* * *
Sara pulled up her gasmask, yanked her Fasthawk free of the zombie’s skull, and then kicked its body off the bluff into the cacti below.
The nasty thing had found her in the wee hours of the morning, stinking and moaning, mucking up her perfectly acceptable campsite and making a nuisance of itself, so she’d taken steps. It wasn’t the zombie’s fault. It was only doing what it always had, which was looking for its next meal, but Sara didn’t feel like letting it have a taste of her. Necrophilia might appeal to some people, but she didn’t swing that way.
Though it was still quite early since the sun wasn’t even up yet, and Sara wasn’t a morning person by any means, she decided to make an early start of it. No going back to sleep after having that much adrenaline dumped into her system anyway. She pulled the container of Sanka Instant from her bag and set about making herself a mug of it with her Esbit camp stove. Okay, yes, it was shitty stuff, but in a pinch, even bad coffee was still coffee. While the heat tablet worked its magic on the water in her canteen cup, she retrieved a packet of dried apricots and another of Cheerios from her backpack and began munching handfuls of them while she waited. It would’ve been nice to have a little milk to go with the cereal, but at that point food was food. There were bigger things to worry about. Like how much farther it was to Pecos.