A Place Outside The Wild

by Daniel Humphreys

  That didn’t mean that the entire team wasn’t enjoying picking on the kid.

  Someone climbed up on the palisade next to the right machine gunner, and mimed a ‘time-out’ signal. Hanratty nodded to himself, then raised a hand out of the open hatch above his head and gave a thumbs-up. “No rush, Corporal,” he said. “We’ve got the air conditioning going.”

  The argument had ended almost as soon as it had begun.

  Miles didn’t know if they’d all realized they were just wasting time, or if the common arguments had finally beaten down everyone’s objections.

  After he’d signaled time out to the LAV, he’d gone halfway down the ladder and hooked one leg around a rung to provide a bit of support. This let him use the roof of the bunker as a shooting platform. The .308-caliber bullets out of his short-barreled rifle wouldn’t do anything that the heavy machine guns couldn’t do better, but they just needed enough fire volume to keep the occupants of the armored vehicle off-balance until they could hit them with a Javelin or two.

  Happy thoughts — maybe it won’t come to that.

  Miles licked his lips and looked down. “Ready whenever you guys are.”

  Down below, Larry nodded, and turned and slapped Gary on the back. The other man looked a little green around the gills, but to his credit, he tightened his jaw and forced a look of determination onto his face.

  Miles glanced up and met Pete’s eyes. His uncle had taken up a similar position on the opposite bunker. Pete nodded and gave him a wink.

  “Open the gates just enough for us to get through and leave them that way,” Gary instructed one of the gate guards from the other bunker. He turned to Pastor Dave, who stood on the ground at Miles’ feet. “Miles, if it comes to it, I’d appreciate if you’d get the heck out of Dave’s way.”

  Miles held back a laugh and nodded. “If it comes to it I’ll be pulling him up as fast as he’s climbing.”

  The eastern gates hung a bare inch over the highway from a welded frame of I-beams. Metal cables and pulleys allowed for the entire assembly to open with a single winch. Brackets on the inside of the wall and the gate were usually filled with heavy timbers to brace against any outward force. They'd already removed those timbers and cast them aside.

  The generator inside of Miles’ bunker came to life with a cough. After a moment, the winch kicked on and began drawing the cabling inward. As the door closest to Miles began to slide over, another cable ran through pulleys, over and down, and began drawing the opposite door open. At full speed, the doors could be open and closed in a total of forty seconds. It was a drawback, and a dangerous one, but they didn’t have the resources for something better that would be as sturdy.

  Opening for personnel access was much quicker. Almost as soon as the winch was on, the guards inside the bunker cut it off, though they left the generator running. Larry hesitated a beat, gave Miles a nod, and stepped out.

  Once outside the gate, he spread his arms wide to display that his hands were empty. Gary aped the gesture as he stepped through himself; both men had left their carry pieces behind. If it came to a fight, they’d be diving in the ditch and trying to scramble inside rather than participating.

  Miles heard metal on metal at the back of the LAV, and he saw one of the rear hatches come open. Inside there would be as many as six troops, sitting back to back on a bench seat that ran down the center of the vehicle. He wondered if they were as nervous as he was.

  A figure in Marine-pattern camouflage stepped down from the back of the vehicle and Miles relaxed, just a bit. A raider wouldn’t go so far to wear a military uniform, would he? Or would that just be a prime way to put any potential marks off of their guard? Miles swallowed and adjusted his grip on his rifle. Here we go.

  The Marine that stepped out of the back of the LAV looked a little careworn. His hair was longish, he had a decent bit of stubble on his face, and his MarPat showed some age, though it was clean. Like Larry and Gary, his hands were empty, and he kept them open and low as he walked around the armored personnel carrier and stopped near the nose.

  Captain, Larry noted. He drew to a stop ten feet in front of the visitor’s resting place and studied the insignia painted on the nose of the LAV. “1st Light Armored Recon, 1st Marine Division. You boys are a hell of a long way from Pendleton.”

  The Marine Captain’s eyebrows ticked up a notch. “That we are. You serve?” He sounded surprised, but hopeful, Larry thought. Interesting.

  “Gunnery Sergeant Larry Vance, Force Recon, 2nd of the 2nd. Retired, of course.” He smirked. Please pass the test.

  “Swift, silent, deadly.”

  “Oorah,” Larry said. He hesitated for a long, silent moment and finally stepped forward. He extended a hand. The other Marine looked at it for a moment as though unsure how to react, then caught himself. Larry chuckled as the Marine shook his hand.

  “Adam Hanratty, Captain, USMC, First of the First.” He gave a faint smile. “Tip of the spear, Gunny. Although the rest of my team is a bit of a mixed bag, we’re on a first contact patrol as part of Operation Atlantic Fury.” He glanced at Gary and nodded. He released Larry’s hand and shook Gary’s. “Sir,” he said.

  “Gary West,” he said, then grinned. “Late of AT&T; now, I guess, I’m the wall guy.”

  Larry laughed, and after a moment so did Hanratty. The brittle tension underlying their conversation eased somewhat, and Larry felt himself relaxing. “What can I do for you on this fine spring day, Captain?”

  Hanratty scratched his chin. “Well, it may be a lost cause, Gunny, but we’re looking for someone who lived in this area. Some of the surviving eggheads think they’re onto something to maybe stop this thing cold, but they need some additional information that, for certain reasons, can only be, umm, accessed . . . by this person.”

  Larry frowned in thought. “So this person, it wouldn’t be a doctor, I’m guessing, given how they don’t necessarily have the information?”

  “Correct. It’s a long story, but suffice it to say we’re just looking for someone to open some doors for us. Well,” Hanratty waved a hand toward the LAV. “Some of my friends in the Navy.”

  “Well, that’s good, because we have a decided shortage of doctors. One no-kidding dentist and my daughter, who graduated med school a few months before everything went to hell. Can’t think of any locksmiths around home off the top of my head. What exactly are you looking for, Captain?”

  Hanratty hesitated for a long moment. “More than that, I don’t feel comfortable saying, Gunny. I’m not sure what sort of leadership setup you all have, but I do have a briefing I’m allowed to offer. I’d just rather do it once to avoid miscommunication.”

  Larry considered that. “Fair enough. Well, you obviously have someone in mind. I can’t promise I know everyone personally, but I imagine Gary or myself are liable to recognize it if it’s a familiar name.”

  “We’re looking for someone named Matthews. Miles Matthews.”

  To Larry’s side, all Gary West could manage was a stunned, barely audible, “Huh.”

  Chapter 12

  In the end, things went better than Miles ever would have allowed himself to hope. The man in Marine camouflage shook hands with Larry and Gary and they talked for a few minutes. Finally, the two from the community turned to face the east wall, and Gary waved his arms wide. “Open it up!” he called out. “It’s all good.”

  On the ground, Pastor Dave let out a relieved sigh and eased the Javelin off of his shoulder. “Thank you, Lord.”

  The wall guard inside the bunker kicked the winch on once more, only, this time he let it run the doors all the way open. If possible, this was perhaps even more nerve-racking than the parley with the visitors. Any zombies that stumbled upon the commotion outside of the gates had a beeline straight into the heart of the community.

  The trio on foot trotted forward, and the LAV rumbled in behind them. As the three stepped through, Gary motioned Larry and the Marine to one side and began making signals to the LAV
to pull off the side of the road. The armored personnel carrier cleared the gate housing with ease. They’d designed the gates to allow access for the combines, which were far taller and wider than the military vehicle. As soon as the LAV was through, Gary shouted, “Reverse it!”

  The winch came alive once more, but Miles didn’t let himself pay attention to it. He was staring at the terrain outside of the gate. If they had any luck, it was the fact that the fields on this side of the community were already disked in preparation for planting. As far as Miles could see, the only thing moving were the weeds at the edge of the road as they rippled in the light breeze.

  The gates came together with a muffled thump; thick rubber matting nailed on the inside edges reduced the contact noise. The first time they’d shut the gates the crash of collision had been audible at the other end of the community. Miles heaved a sigh of relief. The gate guards were already scrambling to maneuver the heavy timbers back into the support brackets.

  Miles slung his rifle over one shoulder and clambered down the ladder off of the bunker. Larry and Gary — Heh, got to razz them about that — stood near the LAV, talking to the Marine officer. The rear hatches of the vehicle opened up, and the Marine’s compatriots climbed down down beside him. He strolled in that direction as he studied the visitors. Pete was moving just as slow, though for a different reason — he was taking his time climbing down the ladder on the opposite bunker.

  Three of the passengers, like the officer, wore faded Marine-pattern camouflage. The only woman in the group was a short, athletic Latina with close-cropped hair, and two men who were both white and of middling height. The commonality ended there. One of the male Marines was thick-waisted and solid looking while the other was skinny and didn’t look old enough to shave, much less put on a uniform.

  The other passengers were more interesting. The three men wore Naval woodland pattern camouflage. It took him a moment to place it, but then his old shelf-stocking memories from working in Larry’s store kicked in. The Marine uniforms tended to have more browns, whereas the Naval versions were greener. Not a big deal these days. Camo was camo, and it wasn’t like it distracted the zombies, but one part of the Navy, in particular, tended to use that sort of uniform. SEALs.

  The men who wore it added more confirmation to the suspicion; although they had various builds, they all sported non-regulation facial hair, which was typical for Special Operations troops. The oldest of the group had a bushy beard that was particularly impressive, even being more gray than brown. Despite what Miles assumed was a long deployment, the Marines accompanying the SEALs were well-groomed, for certain values of the term. This was as typical for Marines and regular line troops as the opposite was for Special Ops.

  He stepped up and joined the group with a nod. “Marshal,” Larry boomed, and Miles rose a mental eyebrow at the volume and title. “Please allow me to introduce Captain Adam Hanratty of the Marines.” He indicated the officer. “Your men, Captain?”

  “Absolutely,” Hanratty replied, and if his eyes looked tired, his smile seemed genuine. He indicated the chunky Marine. “Corporal Patterson.” Toward the short Latina, “Private First Class Rivas. And this,” he indicated the skinny kid, “Is Corporal Baxter.”

  Baxter stepped forward. “Dylan Baxter, folks, pleased to meet you. I’m attached to the Captain’s unit as part of Stars & Stripes. We’re pretty much the only news outfit left, anymore. Excited to talk to the people, maybe share your stories.”

  Larry coughed into his fist, and Miles could tell he was trying not to laugh. The first sign of civilization in years, and of course they brought a reporter with them.

  Pete squinted his eyes and put both hands on his hips. “Ah, Corporal Baxter,” Pete said. “I was under the impression that Stars & Stripes reporters tended to be senior NCOs.”

  Baxter gave Pete a crooked grin. “The old dudes ran slower.”

  “Right,” Pete muttered, which elicited another spate of coughing from Larry. Miles resisted the urge to roll his eyes by looking away. Gary stood just outside of the group and to the side, and he had the same wide-eyed look of shock he’d had since Miles walked up. As Miles glanced in his direction, he noticed that the other man was staring at him for some reason. Is my fly unzipped or something?

  Hanratty interjected. “If I may, Corporal, I’d like to allow Lieutenant Ross to introduce his party.” He indicated one of the three other men. “Lieutenant?”

  The most average of the remaining three stepped forward. Miles placed him in his mid-thirties. Sharp blue eyes peered out from a tanned face, and his beard was the same dusty brown as his hair. “Hello, everyone. Lieutenant Michael Ross, SEAL Team 8. This is Chief Petty Officer Gus Foraker,” as he indicated the bearded older man, “and this is Gunner’s Mate Brian Janacek.” The youngest of the three was blond and wore a time-faded San Diego Padres baseball cap. Ross concluded his speech by saying, “If anything, I am understating things by saying we are ecstatic to meet you all.”

  Larry made a surprised noise in the back of his throat. “So I’m guessing these are the Navy friends you were talking about.” He glanced at Miles. “Marshal, the Captain informs me that they’re here looking for someone named Miles Matthews.” He said it with casual disregard, as though he were reporting on an everyday occurrence outside of the front window. Hey, look at that, the neighbors across the street got a new lawn-mower.

  Miles had the sense that he was standing on the edge of a precipice. How he reacted, at this moment, would determine the course of not only his future, but the futures of everyone around him. His eyes flickered from person to person. Hanratty bore a slight frown as though he had picked up on the undercurrent of Larry’s comment, but the rest of his team didn’t seem to be paying much attention. The Marines save for Baxter were looking around like tourists. The Stars & Stripes reporter had somehow glommed onto Dave Wesley and was jotting down notes in a small book he’d produced from somewhere. The SEALs stood stoic, though their eyes flickered in constant motion, as though waiting for an attack.

  It was a lousy place for a shootout. Miles considered the care with which the group had approached the base, the methodical nature in which they’d moved to defuse any tension, and the situational ease they displayed in exiting their armored vehicle. Rifles were slung; pistols holstered. This wasn’t a group that was looking to fight. It was a group that was hoping for something more.

  “Well,” Miles said finally, taking his step to a side of the precipice with all the boldness he could muster. “I hope this isn’t about overdue library books, or I’m screwed.” He laughed, but it came out strained. “I’m Miles Matthews.”

  Hanratty laughed and relaxed. Miles noted that all three SEALs focused their attention on him as one. “Nothing that bad,” Lieutenant Ross said, finally, after making an assessment. Miles couldn’t even tell what criteria the SEAL was judging him by, but he felt lacking, regardless. Ross glanced around the group, which seemed to be swelling by the moment. “I don’t know that I feel comfortable explaining this to a crowd, but we need your assistance with something.”

  Gary noted Ross’ discomfort and turned. Much of the crowd were wall guards who had gravitated toward the gate, though it also looked like the message had spread that the visitors were not a threat. People were starting to trickle up the road, curious as to the goings on. “Seriously, people?” he yelled. “Engine noise, gate noise, and you just abandon your posts like rookies?”

  The crowd dissipated as chagrined guards sprinted back to their posts. The rest of the onlookers were too busy gawking at the newcomers to react. Gary rubbed his forehead and muttered under his breath.

  “Tell you what,” Larry said. “Why don’t we have a quick town meeting, Captain? We’ll let you introduce yourself, then you all can circulate for a bit, maybe grab some lunch. We were planning on having one tonight, anyway, but we can certainly move things up and add to the agenda. Meanwhile, Miles and your Navy friends can slip away to somewhere a little more private. We�
�ve got a real, live bar and grill, and the owner owes me a few favors. I should be able to get him to open up early.”

  Hanratty glanced at Ross, and the SEAL gave him an imperceptible nod. “Corporal,” Hanratty ordered, “You and Private Rivas will remain behind with the LAV and assist Mister West and the other folks on the wall.” He turned back to Larry. “My people have their own rations, and we don’t want to impose on your town’s supplies.”

  Larry shook his head. “No worries, Captain. Springtime can be a little lean, but we’re doing all right. The kitchen crew will be glad to bring out a few extra meals for your people.” He winked at Patterson and Rivas. “It may be a little bland, but I wager it’ll be a darn sight better than any MREs you have left.”

  “Sounds good, Larry,” the Captain agreed. “Lead the way.”

  The group coalesced into an odd-shaped formation as everyone tried to determine their place. Gary finally extricated himself and waved off the invite to join them. “Got plenty to do here,” he said.

  Miles and Larry ended up flanking Hanratty, with the SEALs close behind the Marine officer. Pete fell in line next to them and showed no signs of being unable to keep up, despite his odd gait. Miles could hear him quizzing the SEAL officer, though the conversation wasn’t loud enough for Miles to hear. He imagined that it was some form of “What the hell do you want with my nephew?”