by Mike Mullin
He finally woke, flailing his arms. “Who is yelling Ben’s name?” he mumbled.
“It’s me. I need your help.”
“Ben’s sleep should not be interrupted.” He rolled over so his back was toward me.
“Your plan for attacking Stockton. I want to try it. But I’m having trouble convincing enough people to join. And we only have three pickups. Is there any way to make it work with only a couple dozen folks?”
“What time is it?” Ben asked, back still turned. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“If the lieutenant wants to know whether he should carry through with his planned attack, he must tell his strategist what the current time is.”
Oh-kay . . . “I don’t know exactly. Sometime between one and two in the morning, I think.”
Ben was quiet for a moment. “You should proceed with the attack. With two dozen men—”
I started to say, “They won’t all be men,” but Ben talked over me.
“An effective attack can be executed. But it must be done quickly, and the attackers must take the defenders by total surprise. Here is a plan with a good probability of success. . . .”
As soon as Ben finished explaining his plan, I ran. We had no time to waste. I grabbed a small backpack, a water bottle, and an empty semi-automatic rifle. As I reached the front door, Dr. McCarthy stopped me, laying a hand on my shoulder.
“I’m in a hurry, Doc,” I said. His eyes were nearly solid red, and his face was slack with exhaustion. “We’re headed to Stockton.”
“I heard,” he said.
I tried to turn away.
Dr. McCarthy held onto my shoulder. “Alex. Haven’t enough people died? Where will it all end?”
“With us starving to death, if we don’t get our food back.” “I just spent sixteen hours trying to save the people who got shot in the last fight. Most of them died. My overalls were so caked in blood that when I took them off, they stood up on their own. As if I were still in them! How many more people have to die?”
“What do you suggest? What’re we going to eat? We could eat our dead, I suppose. Do you want to be the one to suggest that to Uncle Paul? To Max and Anna? That they eat their mother?”
Dr. McCarthy recoiled, drawing his arm back from my shoulder. I bolted out the door.
I stopped by the barn, picking up a coil of rope. Only twenty people, including me, Darla, and Ed, were waiting by the trucks. Twenty to attack a town that had held almost two thousand before the eruption. It seemed the height of foolishness to even try. But I believed in Ben’s plan. In Ben himself. We loaded up the trucks and headed out.
We drove south on Canyon Park Road to avoid Warren. The roads deserted, the only noises were the rumble of our engines and the crunch of our tires on the thin layer of frozen snow. We turned on several minor roads, working our way over to Highway 78, the main route between Warren and Stockton. Neither Ed nor I knew the roads well since we weren’t from Warren, so Lynn gave Darla directions.
When we reached the intersection of Highway 78 and Highway 20, which led directly to Stockton, we pulled the trucks against the snow berm on 78, where they’d be hidden.
I called everyone together and explained the plan, splitting us into two squads of six and one of seven. Darla would stay behind with the trucks. I wasn’t sure how to choose people to lead the other two squads. Ed could have done it, but no one would trust him—a former flenser—as a leader. Someone had to be in charge, though, so I called for volunteers. Nylce and Lynn spoke up, which made sense, I guessed. They were the first ones to volunteer for this whole crazy plan. I wished Uncle Paul were with us. He was always steady in a crisis, and I knew I could have trusted him to lead a squad.
Ben had told me to circle around Stockton at this point and approach from the south. What he hadn’t explained was how I’d even find Stockton after we left the road. It was dead black. And any light would have made us painfully obvious.
I led the column over the snow berm on the south side of Highway 20. We trudged through the thick snow, hoping we were moving in the general direction of Stockton. The walk seemed interminable.
I’d been counting in my head, trying to estimate how long we’d been out there. I reached four thousand—more than half an hour. Surely we should have reached Stockton by then? I started curving to the right, straining to catch sight of Stockton’s barricade of upturned cars.
My count passed six thousand. Still no Stockton. A wall loomed suddenly in front of me: not Stockton’s car wall, but the backside of a snow berm. We must have walked in a huge arc, winding up back at Highway 20. I took a left, following the berm. No doubt Ben was correct, that it would be better to approach from the south, from a place where there was no road. But we couldn’t attack Stockton if we never found it.
Not five minutes later, we finally reached the wall of cars. A sedan was propped on its front bumper, trunk thrust in the air. On either side of it, more cars were wedged together tightly, forming a solid barrier.
On the other side of the berm, I remembered, there was a log gate blocking the road. That would surely be guarded. I led our troop south along the car wall in near silence. No one talked, but in the frozen night, every crunch of our boots in the snow tightened the cold knot of fear growing at the base of my spine.
I glanced overhead constantly, fearing the moment when someone would appear atop the wall. The scene played over and over in my mind—the figure barely visible in the darkness, swinging a gun toward us, opening fire.
I also looked for a particular kind of car in the wall. I needed an older truck with hefty side mirrors mounted on steel brackets, not the modern, plastic, breakaway type. When I found one, I signaled a halt with an upraised palm.
I stopped—waiting, watching, and listening for any sign of opposition above where we stood. I started counting silently: one Mississippi, two Mississippi. About the time I hit four hundred, I heard a low mumble behind me, and turned to glare, raising my hand in a stop gesture. The grumbling silenced. I forced myself to wait a full ten minutes, as Ben had recommended, counting all the way to six hundred Mississippi. I neither saw nor heard any sign of guards on the wall.
The mirror bracket was just above my head. I grabbed the metal bar and tugged hard, putting my whole weight on it. The bracket and truck were rock-solid. I pulled myself upward. It was no different than doing a chin-up in gym class. I hooked an elbow over the mirror and reached higher. I could barely grab the back of the cab. I pulled myself up until I was standing on the mirror bracket. From there, it was fairly easy to scramble up into the bed of the truck and climb the rest of the way by shimmying up the side rail.
I waited another full two minutes up there, flattened against the tailgate atop the truck. I saw a couple of flickering lights off in the distance, but they didn’t move. Apparently, no one was patrolling this section of the wall. The truck I was on was held upright by a log wedged under its rear axle. The log sloped down to the ground, forming the hypotenuse of a right triangle.
When I felt certain it was safe, I got the rope out of my backpack, tied one end to the tailpipe, and tossed the other end down to Ed. Then I climbed down the inside of the wall. That was much easier than the climb up had been—I just lowered myself down the exhaust pipe until I reached the log that supported the truck. Wrapping my legs around the log made it easy to slide the rest of the way to the ground.
Eighteen people followed the path I’d blazed over the truck. Every grunt and clunk jangled my already-rattled nerves. I moved away from the wall. I’d come down beside a cemetery, so I took a position along its fence, scanning back and forth for any sign of opposition. I couldn’t help but remember Elmwood Cemetery outside of Warren, the carnage there yesterday I hoped Stockton’s cemetery wouldn’t see similar bloodshed—if this went off perfectly, no one had to die.
The last person over the wall untied the rope and returned it to me. We broke into our pre-arranged squads, and Lynn and Nylce led their groups along the wall
in opposite directions. I sent a silent prayer out with them, that they’d both be up to the task they’d volunteered for. Then I took my squad straight for the center of Stockton.
My squad left the graveyard, jogging through what looked like a residential neighborhood. It was tough to tell—buildings, except for those right on the street, were hidden by the darkness. The streets were dark and silent—deserted.
We’d been running for only three or four minutes when I caught sight of a small fire up ahead, flickering in the surrounding darkness. I raised a hand, signaling stop. Working in whispers and gestures, I split my squad into two groups, sending Ed and two others to swing wide and sneak up to the fire from the other side, and leaving three guys with me to approach directly.
I gave Ed’s group time to work their way around the fire while I waited, counting off two minutes in my head. Then I bent low and stalked along the road, directly toward the fire.
As I got closer, I saw two figures beside the fire—one silhouetted, with his back to us, and another facing us on the far side. The plowed track in the road split where they were camped, one branch continuing straight and the other veering to pass under a huge overhead door, directly into a warehouse. The warehouse looked massive, extending far beyond what the circle of firelight could illuminate. The sign over the closed overhead door read Furst Electrical and chemical Distributors, est. 1951.
I dropped to a crawl, moving in the darkness along the edge of the road. When we got so close that I was sure the guys by the fire had to hear us, I held up my hand, all five fingers splayed. My fingers didn’t shake, which surprised me. On the inside, I was trembling like an autumn leaf. I lowered my fingers one at a time: five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.
All of us jumped to our feet, sprinting toward the fire. The two guards lurched up, spinning and peering into the blackness toward us. One of them bent, reaching for a long gun propped against his chair. Ed materialized from the darkness behind him, pressing his gun to the guy’s neck. I reached the fire, training my rifle at the other guy. The rifle was empty, but he didn’t know that.
He said, “What the—?”
“Any more guards here?” I asked, gesturing with my rifle.
“Who in the seven hells of Sheba are you?”
“I’m holding the gun, so I’ll ask the questions. Got it?” Without waiting for an answer, I ordered Ed, “Search them.”
Ed slung his rifle across his back and frisked both of them, coming up with a bowie knife and a machete. They both had shotguns too, which Ed promptly confiscated. He passed the machete and one of the shotguns to other members of our squad.
“Are there more guards here?” I repeated.
“Cliff’s in charge. Ask him.”
I aimed my rifle at the other guy—Cliff. “Talk.”
“Cain’t. Doctore wouldn’t like it if ah did.”
“Doctor? What doctor?” I asked.
“Cain’t tell you.”
Ed turned back to Cliff, bowie knife clenched in his fist at about chest level. The blade shone orange in the firelight. He wrapped a hank of Cliff’s long, greasy hair around his left hand, forcing his head back.
“Ed. What’re you doing?” I asked.
Ed slipped the edge of his knife along Cliff’s throat.
“This guy’s in charge. Kill him, and the other one’ll talk.” The other guy backed away, running right into the barrel of a shotgun held by Steve McCormick. That stopped him in his tracks.
We didn’t have time to waste. One of the other squads could run into trouble sweeping the walls. I stared at Cliff. He was sweating despite the cold. Could I do it? Order Ed to kill this man while I watched just to get the other guy to talk? If we didn’t gain control of Stockton through surprise—before any gunfire broke out—some of us would die. Maybe all of us. Was that worth taking Cliff’s life? I thought of my dad, how vicious he’d been with captured slavers in the Maquoketa FEMA camp. I understood him better now.
Would Ed even do it? I lifted my gaze to Ed’s face. The flat look in his eyes told me yes, he would. He shrugged as if to say get on with it.
I nodded. “Do it,” I said. “Cut his throat.”
Ed’s grip tightened on the knife handle.
“W-wait,” Cliff stammered. Ed checked his cut. A thin line of blood, dark and viscous, appeared along Cliff’s neck. Two black runnels parted from the line, trickling toward Cliff’s collarbone.
“J-just hold on, hold on,” Cliff said. “There’s no other guards nearby. Just us.”
“What’re you guarding?”
“Warehouse.”
I scowled at him. “Duh, what’s in it?”
“All our supplies. Spare guns, ammo, gas.”
“How many guards are on duty in town right now?” Cliff hesitated. I took a step toward him.
“Six, just six. Us, two on the west gate, two on the east gate.”
“No patrols?”
“Not tonight. Everybody’s up in Warren.”
“You’re bullshitting me,” I said flatly, glancing at Ed, who still held the knife close to Cliff’s throat.
“N-no. Everyone’s in Warren, I swear. Doctore cleaned us out, sent everyone with the primus to fight in Warren.” “But they left you behind.”
“Doctore wanted a few men held back. Just the most trustworthy. To guard the town.”
“Who’s this doctor guy?”
“Red. He runs things here now. Calls himself a doctore, trainer of gladiators. Calls us a familia. Thinks he’s some kind of reborn Roman, even studies Latin. Whatever—I just do what I’m told.”
“So why’re you in front of this warehouse?”
“Little food’s left. It’s in there too. Been broken into twice. Gotta guard it.”
“From your own people,” I said. Cliff nodded. They must be starving to try to steal from their town’s own food stores. The thought made me a little sick. “Six on duty tonight, how many in the daytime shifts?”
“J-just twelve more. They’re in the sack right now.” “Who’s in charge?”
“Doctore s here. He sent Primus Alton to Warren.” “Where?”
“He’s got a house up by City Hall.”
“And where’re the guards sleeping?”
“Y-you’re just going to kill me, ain’t you? After I tell you everything?”
“Ed’s going to kill you right now if you don’t tell me everything.”
Cliff’s Adam’s apple bobbed, triggering a new trickle of blood down his neck. “Barracks are near City Hall too. In the Stockton Bowling Lanes.”
“Ed,” I said, “detail two men to guard this warehouse and hold him.” I gestured at the second guard. “Cliff is going to take the rest of us to visit this doctore of his.”
I got the rope out of my backpack, cut a hank, and bound Cliff’s hands behind his back.
“You’re going to lead us directly to Doctore s house. And you’ll be quiet about it. Or Ed will finish the cut he started in your neck.”
Cliff led us down the street until we reached an old, two-story brick building labeled City Hall and Police Department. A few businesses were scattered on the other side of the street, including a bowling alley with its front window covered in black paper.
“That the barracks?” I asked Cliff in a whisper.
“Yes,” he replied.
As we crept past the bowling alley, the stillness of the night was shattered by gunfire.
Chapter 9
The gunfire was coming from somewhere to the west, near the car wall. “Shit,” I muttered. “Run! To Doctore s house!” I prodded Cliff with my gun, and we all broke into a sprint.
I glanced over my shoulder. Cracks of light shone around the edges of the bowling alley-cum-barracks’ windows. A new fusillade of noise broke out somewhere northeast of us—there were two separate firefights going on. Everyone in Stockton must have been awakened.
Just past the tiny downtown area, the character of the street changed; it was lined with Victo
rian mansions set so close to the street that they loomed out of the darkness, turrets and gables hanging threateningly over our heads. As we ran, lights appeared in several of the windows. “Which house is it?” I yelled at Cliff, prodding him again with the barrel of my gun.
“First one,” Cliff gasped, pointing at a particularly ornate house.
I glanced over my shoulder again. A man with an oil lamp and rifle was emerging from the side door to the bowling alley I cursed myself silently—I should have set up an ambush at the door of the barracks. That’s what Ben would have told me to do. But by then it was too late.
I swerved into the side street between the last commercial building and Doctore s house. A light was moving around on the second floor. Cliff lagged behind, and I let him, racing ahead. Ed was alongside me, the three remaining members of my squad trailing behind.
I ran to the back of the house and flung open the storm door. There was a small window set into the top of the back door. Inside it was dark. I raised my foot, launching a front kick at the lock. All my desperation and fear flowed into that kick. The lock was solid, but the jamb wasn’t. It splintered with an obscenely loud crack, and the door banged open.
In the dark, we raced through the main floor of the house, crashing blindly into unseen furniture, looking for a staircase. Finally I spotted a dim ray of light. I ran toward it, my empty gun held at shoulder level in front of me, commando style—at least I thought it was from what I’d seen in video games.
I pulled up at the base of a grand Victorian staircase. Polished wood and elaborately turned balusters gleamed in the light of an oil lamp. The lamp sat on the floor next to a whip-thin guy, so short that even I could have looked down on him if he hadn’t been at the top of the staircase. His brown hair was chopped into a cruel buzz cut, his upper lip adorned with a wispy Hitler mustache. He had a large straight knife, almost a sword, in his right hand and a short blade with a wicked serrated spine in his left. He played with the shorter blade, rolling it across the back of his hand over and over, as if it were a habit ingrained through hundreds of hours of practice. Other than the motion of that hand and blade, he was preternaturally still.