The Soldier (Book 1): Torment

by Lundy, W. J.

  He stopped and made a visual search of the vehicle through the side window, seeing only the already bloating body. He turned and saw that Mathews wasn’t moving, the young soldier still posted up at the back of the HUMVEE. “Move your ass, Private. Cover me,” Gyles shouted as he repositioned at the hood of the sedan, keeping the engine block between him and the building.

  The wounded man staggered ahead two more steps. He was trying to speak, but only shallow grunts left his mouth. The man’s foot lifted then wavered, and he collapsed to a knee. Gyles rose, his rifle locked in on the man. He kept the red dot on the man’s bloodied chest as he tried to search the empty windows of the station. Through the ACOG (Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight), with both eyes open, he could see blood-soaked gauze covering what appeared to be a bad gut wound. The man was old and gray-bearded, his face pale from blood loss.

  Gyles looked left and right then called over his shoulder, “Cover the station windows; I’m moving up.”

  He passed between the gas pumps, keeping his head down and racing forward to the kneeling man. Just as he arrived, the man collapsed to the ground on his back. Looking for other wounds, Gyles ran a gloved hand down the arm closest to where he crouched. “Are you infected? Are you bit… scratched?”

  “Infec…ted? Infected from what? I’m gutshot, boy,” the old man said, trying to turn his head and failing.

  The old man’s lips were cracked and bloodied, and red foam had settled at the corners of his mouth. Gyles removed a bottle of water from a hip pocket, twisted off the top, and put it to the man’s lips, allowing him to drink.

  “You alone?”

  The man strained and coughed, his voice garbled. “Yes. Ain’t nobody here but me.”

  “What happened, buddy? Who shot you?” Gyles looked back and could see that the rest of his team was moving up, creating a bubble of security around him. Gyles relaxed his hold on the rifle, knowing he was covered, but kept his hand on the pistol grip.

  The man tried to lift his head again before it collapsed back to the blacktop. “Lotta traffic,” he whispered. “Too much traffic, so many people on the road day and night.” The old man paused and took in several breaths, his eyes opening and closing. He looked up at Gyles. “They was young folks. They come in here just the other night.” He tried to lift his head again. Gyles put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. The man lifted his right hand and pointed to where the bodies lay on the far side of the road. “I think they’re dead.”

  “Yeah.” Gyles nodded and looked at the bare foot lying motionless in the grass. “We found ’em; nothing we can do for them.”

  “They were good kids. They come in here just after dark. Good kids,” the man said again. “They filled up their truck, bought some supplies… water, food, stuff like that.” The old man coughed again. “Lots of folks stop here before heading to the campgrounds, hard to pick out a campsite in the dark. They asked if it was okay if they rested in their truck until morning come.”

  Gyles searched the area, not seeing any truck. “Was it a red Toyota?”

  The old man’s eyes grew with recognition. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

  “Found the driver dead a few miles up the road. You know how that happened?”

  The man licked at his chapped lips. Gyles brought down the bottle and gave him another drink. “I done it. I shot him.” He coughed violently; the bloody foam at the corners of his mouth grew. “At least I hope I done it; that son of a bitch killed those kids, and Susan, and whoever was in that other car in the road yonder,” he said before closing his eyes tight. He opened them again and looked at Gyles.

  He pointed at the intersection. “That feller came in and did that, driving like a bat out of hell, he hit that car. The driver of the other car was killed, but that asshole walked away from it. He walked away with the other car burning like it was none of his business. Nothing for him to be concerned with.

  “He run up in my station like he’d done nothing wrong, shouting at me. He demanded I give him a vehicle. I told him no, that I was going to call the police.

  “I tried the phone but nothing. They didn’t answer. The guy gets all agitated and pulls a pistol on me.” The old man stopped to have another coughing fit. Gyles let him finish and used the corner of the man’s shirt to wipe his chin.

  The man took a labored breath and sighed. “He told me to give him my truck or he’d kill me.” He looked at the bullet-pocked parked sedan. “Susan… from the gift shop… she’d locked up for the night and stopped to fill her tank. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. The man turned toward her, and she saw his gun. She screamed and ran back to her car. He shot me in the gut then ran after her. I heard the gunshots and those kids screaming.” A tear rolled down the man’s cheek.

  “I keep a rifle behind the counter. I got to it, but he’d already shot Susan and those kids. He was in their truck trying to drive away. I pumped it full of rounds as he moved down the road.” He shook his head. “I kept trying the phone, calling for help. Nobody come. I saw a few cars on the road; they all went right past that wreck, hardly slowing down. Like it wasn’t even there.”

  Gyles turned to Mathews and called him forward. The private was quickly beside him. “Morgan,” Mathews said in a faint voice, kneeling to put a hand on the man’s shoulder. The man looked up at him with recognition. He forced a smile but didn’t speak.

  “Mathews, I need you stay with him while we clear the buildings.”

  The private nodded, not taking his eyes off the old man. His hand had moved from the old man’s shoulder and was now gripping his bloody palm. Weaver and Mike had moved forward and were fanning out. Gyles got to his feet and joined them at the front of the station. Feet away from the door, he could see inside. The shelves were still fully stocked and untouched, the lights out. He moved to the glass door and looked inside. Weaver reached out and, waiting for a nod from Gyles, pulled it open.

  The inside of the store was damp and musty with the power out. Gyles could see smeared blood on the white tile floor. He moved inside, walking to the counter and looking over it, seeing more blood on the far side. Moving back along the floor, looking down aisles, he saw the blood trail led to an area of first aid supplies. Strips of gauze and bandages were dumped out. Several first aid kits were opened and scattered. A Ruger Mini-14 lay on the floor with an empty magazine box next to it.

  After a quick lap through the store, Gyles found the place as empty as the old man said it was. He moved to a back-corner area filled with automotive supplies, finding a half dozen red five-gallon plastic gas cans. He pointed at them and told Weaver to get to work on filling them with diesel if they had it. He saw another shelf on the back wall with sealed single-gallon cans of kerosene. There were less than ten of them; it wouldn’t make much of a difference. He moved through the store and to a back door. Holding the handle, he waited and listened intently before opening it.

  He found something outside that would be even more useful to them—a Ford pickup truck with a landscaping trailer attached to it. On the trailer was a strapped-down riding lawnmower, a pair of push mowers, and some weed edgers. Gyles looked back, seeing that Mike was just behind him. He pointed at the truck and trailer. “Get Collier and get this thing stripped down, get all that junk off the trailer. We can use the truck and trailer to get as much out of here and back to the camp as possible.”

  Mike nodded and turned away to get Collier. Gyles let the door close then moved back to the front of the store and knelt by the old man, whose eyes were now shut. Mathews had the old man’s head propped up on a folded blanket. Gyles looked at the blanket and asked Mathews, “Where’d you get that?”

  Mathews pointed to a set of picnic tables at the end of the gas station. Gyles had seen it before but didn’t pay much attention to it. The young man lifted something up and showed it to Gyles. “There was this too,” he said.

  Gyles took it in his hand. It was an MRE wrapper. He examined it and looked back at Mathews. “You found this over
there?” he asked.

  “Yeah, looks like the kids might’a been eating MREs when the shooting started. Stuff is opened and dumped out, like they never really got into it.” Mathews looked back at the table and to Gyles. “Sergeant, where you think they got MREs?”

  Gyles bit at his lower lip, holding the brown package wrapper. He turned it in his hand. “Lots of people have them, I guess, especially campers.”

  “No,” the old man coughed.

  Gyles looked down at him. The man’s eyes were still closed but his lip was quivering. “They said there is a roadblock about five miles north. Military is stopping all northbound traffic, giving out those food pouches and water to folks that need it. But not letting anyone get back on 81 to go north.”

  “They told you this?” Gyles asked.

  “Yes.” The old man wheezed then relaxed again. “’Cause of the riots, they said. Police won’t let anyone north.” He opened his eyes and looked at Gyles. “When I saw your army truck, I thought that was where you came from.”

  Looking over the old man, he watched as Weaver pushed a shopping cart filled with the empty plastic gas cans toward the pumps. The bottom of the cart was stacked with the cans of kerosene. He stopped by Gyles and looked down at the old man, shaking his head slowly side to side. “Found the pump controls and lit it up.”

  “You all taking my fuel?” the old man said.

  “We’ll write you an IOU,” Gyles said, squeezing his shoulder. “We’ll pay for anything we take.”

  The man smiled. Gyles winced, seeing the blood on his teeth. “Take what you need. Power is out, but it auto switched to a low-pressure pump. It runs on batteries on the roof. Take what you can while we got juice to pump it,” the old man whispered.

  Gyles looked at the three rows of pumps, taking note of the yellow handle at one on the end. Weaver saw what he was looking at and nodded. “I’ll get the cans topped off and fill the Hummer.”

  As he spoke, the Ford pickup with the long trailer attached rolled around the corner. Mike had off-loaded all lawnmowing equipment and dumped things that had been stuck in the truck bed. Gyles looked across at Mathews and said, “Get your friend comfortable in the back of the truck and help Mike get as much loaded as you can. Anything left you can come back for later, okay?”

  The injured man spoke up. “Nope. Just get me home to my place. I’ll be okay there,” he whispered. “I ain’t leaving here.”

  Gyles looked down at him; there was no doubt in any of their minds that the old man wasn’t going to make it. Even in the best of circumstances, being gutshot wasn’t survivable without a proper trauma center. “I’ll make sure they get you home,” Gyles said.

  The old man opened his eyes. “And I’ll need that IOU for anything you boys take. I know my inventory too, so make sure it’s all listed. Don’t test me, son.”

  Mathews squeezed the old man’s palm. “I’ll make sure it’s all written down, Mister Morgan.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Day of Infection Plus Ten, 1330 Hours

  GW National Forest, Morgan’s Corner Store, Virginia.

  It took them the better part of two hours to load the truck and trailer with all the food, water, and diesel fuel it could hold. Gyles made sure that Mike and Mathews delivered the man to his home, along with a detailed list of what they had taken. If the man had family, they wanted to make sure the government paid its debt. While they delivered Morgan to his home, the rest of them finished loading the supplies and ensuring everything was tied down.

  Gyles carefully walked around the front of the Humvee, where Weaver was opening a new can of tobacco. He had a log of the chewing tobacco sitting on the hood of the vehicle. Weaver looked back toward Collier, who was standing near the Ford pickup, loading cases of water. “Can you believe this? With all the killing going on, and this man found a way to kill even more,” he said. “What the hell was he thinking?”

  Gyles stared at the wreckage in the road. “He was running away from something, and we both know what. The infected have got to be close.”

  “What are you looking to do?” Weaver asked. “You want to go find them?”

  “No, I don’t want to find them,’’ Gyles said, shaking his head. “I’m going to send M and M back to camp with the truck and the trailer; that’s the priority.” Gyles had not taken his eyes off the wrecked cars. “I’ll have them let Luke know about the supplies here and everything we got. If he’s smart, he’ll send a team for everything else, get it all moved back to camp.”

  “We’re not going then?” Weaver said. “We’re not going back?”

  “Can’t,” Gyles said. “That old man said there could be a checkpoint up ahead. We need to move on up the road and see if we can find this military roadblock.”

  Weaver turned his head and spit a wad of tobacco. “You think they are still there, boss?”

  Gyles shook his head then heard footfalls behind him. Turning, he saw Mike and Mathews returning from Morgan’s house. Both men were holding their rifles loosely to their front, their heads hanging. They walked past the pumps and stood between the Ford and the Humvee. Collier finished with a tie-down and stepped back.

  Gyles looked to Mike. “How is he?”

  The officer sighed and shook his head. “He’s gone.” He held out a brown leather hygiene bag. “The old man had a virtual pharmacy in his bathroom, everything from some pretty high-strength pain killers to antibiotics. Figured we could use them. You want me to take this stuff back to that doctor?”

  Gyles took the bag and looked at the bottles, considering his answer. He still didn’t have much trust or faith in Doctor Howard. He decided he would hold onto them until he could talk it over with his medic, Corporal Rodriguez. “This is good, Mike. I think I’ll hold them for now and talk it over with the Doc when I get back.”

  “When will that be?” Mike asked.

  Gyles hesitated to look out at the road then to the truck being loaded with supplies. “Listen, I want you to head back with Mathews, tell Luke what we have here, and let him know we are continuing on with the recon. We’ll try and be back before sundown.”

  Mike raised his eyebrows. “You sure? This stuff isn’t going anywhere. Maybe we can all move out together and just grab this on the way back.”

  Frowning, Gyles said, “No, food and water is too important to risk, and they need fuel or they won’t be able to bug out if…”

  “If,” Mike said, knowing exactly what Gyles meant. “But, if it’s so important to get this stuff back to camp, then come with us. We have food now; we can hold out, let help come to us.”

  Not used to being questioned, Gyles put his hands on his hips and exhaled. He was ready to improve his argument when Weaver intervened. “Mike, you take care of the people, and we’ll take care of Army stuff. That cool?” Weaver said.

  Mike nodded, knowing he was in a losing argument. “Understood. You guys just be careful and make sure you get back to the camp.” He walked toward the two men and extended his hand. “I’ll make sure Luke gets a full rundown on what’s going on. You ain’t back by dark, we’re going to come looking for you.”

  Gyles rubbed his chin and smiled. “At least give us two days. I’m not looking to spend the night out here, but Murphy, ya know,” he said, returning the handshake.

  “Yeah, I know,” Mike said, turning to the truck and mounting up.

  Gyles stood by and watched the truck pull out and head back up the road toward the camp, the trailer completely overloaded with cases of food and water. He looked back to their own vehicle. It was just as well-supplied, with enough food to last three days, if you count snack cakes and Slim Jims as food. The back rack of the Hummer held 4 five-gallon cans of diesel on a rack, and the tank was completely topped off.

  He looked at the two men beside him and told them it was time to go. Collier headed for the turret and Gyles shook him off. “Just stay inside for now. We’ll go buttoned up from here on out. We don’t fight unless we have to.”

  Colli
er nodded, seeming relieved at the idea. He moved around to the back passenger door. “Oh no, Corporal; no laid-back day of window licking for you,” Weaver said, pointing to the driver’s seat.

  Collier pursed his lips and nodded. “I got you. Makes no difference to me because I like driving anyway,” he bellowed, trying to hold back a laugh.

  “Well, try liking it with your inside voice, Mister Megaphone,” Gyles said, holding a finger to his lips.

  “Damn, boss, did you just give Corporal Collier here a nickname? Fucking Mega, Mister Megaphone.” Weaver laughed.

  The comment busted the dam, and Collier let loose with a laugh that could have been heard back at the camp. Gyles shook his head and shoved the big man toward the Hummer, telling them to mount up. They’d all been balling up stress for the last few days, and it felt good to laugh about something, even if it was about how big a buffoon Collier was. “Okay, Mega, kick the tires and light the fires,” he said. “Let’s get some distance on this place.”

  Mega’s booming laugh was still bouncing around the armored cab of the Humvee as they made the turn onto the highway and headed east. The terrain and scenery quickly changed. It was like moving across borders in some old movie, from color into black and white. The road went from dirt to pavement. Less than a mile onto the paved road, they made the turn onto the interstate ramp headed north.

  Gyles spun his head, looking for landmarks and writing a mile marker number into his notebook. “Make sure we can find our way back, boys,” he said, the others nodding.

  They were on the interstate now. It was crowded and backed up with abandoned vehicles. And there was something else; they were surrounded by death. As Mega slowed to run on the shoulder of the road along a line of stalled vehicles, Gyles could see that the cars, in fact, hadn’t been abandoned. They were covered with gore, hand marks left by the doomed occupants, windshields streaked with blood. Gyles clenched his hands, instinctively checking the location of his rifle.