by James Cook
Storm of Ghosts
Surviving the Dead Volume 8
By:
James N. Cook
TABLE OF CONTENTS:
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
Monsters are real, and ghosts are real too. They live inside us, and sometimes they win.
-Stephen King
ONE
Caleb,
Parabellum
At around 0300 on a Saturday morning in the first week of June, I found myself lying on a hillside in Northern Arkansas. I had been lying there since sundown and was losing hope I would move my legs again before dawn. So when my earpiece crackled and my old friend Tyrel Jennings spoke, I was grateful.
“All stations, Sierra Lead. Confirm targets acquired. Over.”
There were eight other snipers positioned around the walls of the small community nestled in a natural hollow roughly two hundred yards below. From where I lay, I could smell the smoke of cook fires preparing breakfast for the marauders who ruled the town. Orange lights glowed from glassless windows, mostly candles and oil lanterns, only a few buildings in town boasting electricity. What power was available was provided by a large generator near the central plaza.
The buildings connected to the limited grid belonged exclusively to the Storm Road Tribe. There was no infrastructure in place to provide power to the rest of the town, even though doing so would not have been difficult. A twenty-man work crew and a halfway knowledgeable electrician could have done the job in a week, provided they had the necessary resources. Which the Storm Road Tribe most certainly did. However, in the three weeks the Blackthorn Security Company had been surveilling the area, the man in charge had made no effort to improve his town’s infrastructure. Nor did it appear likely he would. Perhaps it was his way of establishing a sense of privilege among his men while simultaneously reminding the peasants of their place in the pecking order.
“Sierra One, target acquired.”
“Sierra Two, target acquired…”
On it went until Gabriel Garrett’s rumbling baritone informed Sierra Lead, AKA Tyrel Jennings, that Sierra Eight had acquired his target.
I keyed my radio. “Sierra Nine, target acquired.”
“All stations, Sierra Lead, acknowledged. Stand by.”
My right eye peered through the reticle of a night vision scope. The crosshairs followed a man walking the catwalk on the southern wall of the compound. He was one of twelve guards on the outer perimeter: eight on the catwalks, four in the towers. The roving patrol on the south wall and the southwest tower were my responsibility.
The rover I watched stopped by the guard tower, pulled something from his belt, took a drink from it, replaced the container, and stood staring southward for a few seconds. Then he turned and began walking toward the other tower. I shifted aim toward the southwest tower, positioned the crosshairs center-of-mass on the tower guard, and began counting backward from sixty-two.
Over the last couple of hours, sixty-two seconds was the average time it had taken the rover to walk from one end of the wall to the other and turn around. If Tyrel gave the order to fire during that time, the tower guard would die first, then the rover. If the order came down after sixty-two seconds, I would take out my targets in reverse order. The second option was not my favorite. It meant there was a chance the tower guard would see the rover go down and sound the alarm. There would be less chance of that happening in the next minute while the rover had his back turned.
“All stations, Sierra Lead. Coordinate fire on my mark.”
“’Bout damn time,” I muttered.
“Three, two, one, mark.”
I squeezed the trigger and felt the rifle thump against my shoulder. A suppressor on the end of the converted SCAR 17’s barrel dulled the report to a muted crack. Through the NV scope, I saw my target stiffen, but he did not fall. I fired twice more and watched him twitch with each impact. Finally he collapsed.
The tower guard must have made a noise because when I switched aim to the rover, he had stopped, turned around, and was peering through the darkness at the watchtower. He put his hands around his mouth to call out, but the words never made it. I fired twice. The shots took the marauder in the chest at a diagonal, sending two gouts of dark liquid spraying behind his far shoulder. He stumbled backwards, fell on his ass, and clutched his chest. Before he died, he looked at his hands, no doubt seeing them covered in blood. I had a moment to wonder what he was thinking in his last few seconds of life before the radio crackled again.
“Sierra One, tango delta.”
‘Tango delta’ was the call sign for ‘target down’, meaning Sierra One had killed his bad guys without incident. If he had said ‘tango Charlie’, meaning ‘target compromised’, things would have gotten hectic. Thankfully, the rest of the confirmations came quickly, including mine, all stations reporting tango delta.
I took a few big breaths and let them out slowly, willing my heartrate to decrease. I did not get the shakes. My hands were steady.
I was seventeen the first time I killed someone. Two someones, actually. Afterward, I got the shakes bad enough the paramedics wanted to take me in for observation, which I refused. In the years since, my reaction to fighting and killing had gradually diminished. I likened it to the Doppler Effect, the noise of a loud object passing close by at first, then diminishing like the drone of an engine fading into the distance. It had been over five years since those first killings, and the noise was dim now. I wondered how long it would be, how many more faces I would see in the dark when sleep refused to come, before I would hear it not at all.
*****
Tyrel’s decision to attack at three in the morning was not random. At that hour, most people in the settlement were asleep. The townsfolk, lacking electricity and therefore unable to light their homes without running the risk of burning them down, had mostly turned in after sunset. The marauders stayed up later, but not excessively so. Even criminal scum need to rest before a late watch. The pattern had been the same the last three weeks. Tonight was no exception.
So when the ladders went up and nine squads of highly-trained Blackthorn operators scaled the walls of Parabellum, it seemed there was no one around to observe them. All the marauders on the wall were dead, and the others were still in their barracks with the lights out.
Someone, however, must have been awake because the assault teams had no sooner reached the ground and set out for the center of town when, from somewhere near the east wall, a bell started ringing.
My earpiece crackled. “Bra
vo Lead, Sierra Lead, all teams proceed on mission. Acknowledge, over.”
“Acknowledged, Sierra Lead. Proceeding on mission. Over.”
“Sierra Two, who the fuck is ringing that bell? Over.”
“Got him, Sierra Lead. Wait one.”
A moment later the ringing stopped.
“Sierra Lead, Sierra Two. Tango delta.”
“About fucking time. All right gentlemen, the ball is up, but the plan hasn’t changed. Stay focused, provide fire support where you can, and make sure you don’t shoot anyone dressed like a Blackthorn.”
We didn’t bother with acknowledgments. There was no time. I hunched down over my rifle and searched the area of town I could see. A few people came out into the streets, none of them armed. I held my fire. From the east part of town the unmistakable rattle of an AK-47 tore into the night. It was answered by several M-4s. The AK went silent. I scanned the streets again. Still no gunmen, and no sign of the assault teams.
I shifted focus to the center of town. A few dozen marauders had exited their barracks and formed into fire teams, each one moving to a different street accessing the central plaza. One of them, a four-man team, had taken position directly in my line of sight. I put the scope on the guy who looked like he was in charge, let out half a breath, and squeezed the trigger. The shot took him high in the back, likely hitting a major artery. Dead or not, he was out of the fight.
There was a moment of panic as the rest of his fire team saw him go down. One moment he was standing there giving orders, the next he had a hole in his chest and was spitting up blood. The delay gave me enough time to line up another shot and take it. Another marauder went down. The last two broke and ran. I tried to sight in on one of them, but he went around a corner and out of visual.
At other points around the central plaza, panic was taking hold. Shots poured in from all sides, their source invisible to the men on the receiving end. All they knew was they had been awakened and now stood in the darkness taking heavy fire. But they couldn’t hear any reports or see any muzzle flashes. It was useless to return fire because they could not tell where the shots were coming from. They were more likely to hit each other than the enemy.
After a few more seconds, the defenders broke. Panicked men left their posts and fled down streets and alleyways and ducked into buildings. I shifted focus to the largest building in town. The marauder’s leader lived there. He had been seen going in and out of the building numerous times over the last few weeks. At night, he went in and stayed. I checked the windows and doorways. No one. The balconies were deserted as well. To all appearances, the place was abandoned. No lights, no movement, nothing.
Strange.
Back to the southern part of town. What few people had been in the streets before had now sought shelter indoors. Smart. It was not a good time to be outside. Too much chance of getting shot at.
Since I had nothing else to do at the moment, I switched comms channels and listened to the assault teams’ radio chatter. They moved with speed and efficiency, keeping conversation to a minimum. Several teams met small pockets of resistance and crushed them without mercy. None of our guys had been hit so far.
Less than five minutes from the time their boots hit Parabellum soil, the teams reached the central plaza. A few of them advanced on the barracks while the rest stormed the leader’s mansion. They met no resistance. In fact, they met no one at all. The building was empty.
The assault teams reassembled and began to sweep the town building by building. At each doorway, they announced themselves and gave the inhabitants a chance to come out. Most did. A few houses contained people too sick or injured to stand up. The assault teams entered and cleared, but did so carefully. Our rules of engagement were very firm on one particular point: we were to minimize civilian casualties. The mission was to liberate these people, not kill them. The teams took their time and did things right.
A few houses turned up marauders trying to hide out from the assault teams. Most of them went quietly, but one took a hostage and started shooting. The teams did the smart thing: they waited until he was out of ammo and then moved in. Within seconds of the first dry trigger pull, the marauder was face down on the ground, pinned in place by about five hundred pounds of armored whoop-ass. His hog-tied form being dragged into the central plaza marked the last gasp of resistance from the Storm Road Tribe.
The radio emitted static and Tyrel started talking again, but he abruptly stopped when several thumps reverberated through the ground. I was confused for a moment, then realization dawned and I felt my heart sink.
Explosives.
The radio was loud for a while until it was determined no one was hurt. The explosions had come from underground. I keyed my radio.
“Sierra Lead, Sierra Nine. Looks like Sierra Eight’s theory was correct.”
Tyrel ignored me. “Bravo Lead, can you confirm if those blasts came from tunnels?”
“Affirmative. Just found the entrance to one in the mansion. Nothing but a pile of rubble now.”
“Any chance we can get our guys in there and give chase?”
“Negative. We’d need an excavator.”
A few seconds passed. I could just imagine Tyrel scraping a hand over his close cropped hair and cursing in frustration.
“Bravo Lead, can you confirm the town is secure?”
“Affirmative. Last team just reported in.”
“Good. I’m calling in air support. Those raiders have to come out somewhere. Maybe the helo can find them. All sierra stations, maintain posture. Report contact, but do not engage. Wait for backup. Bravo Lead, keep everyone on the clock. This might not be over.”
“Copy, Sierra Lead. Staying frosty.”
I sat up, put my back to a tree, and took a long pull from my canteen.
“Tunnels,” I muttered to myself. “Sneaky bastards.”
TWO
With dawn came hope and frustration. Hope for the townsfolk, and frustration for the Blackthorns.
The civilian population of Parabellum was now being tended to by an Army support platoon and a few doctors from the Phoenix Initiative. The extra troops and the docs had come in via Chinook a couple of hours ago. A field hospital had been set up and medical supplies flown in. There were a lot of people in need of medical attention.
I did my part to help, but stayed wary while I moved among the townsfolk. Most people were acting grateful now, but this had been a marauder settlement for a long time. The only reason we were being welcomed was because we were less of an oppressive presence than the Storm Road Tribe had been. And not everyone was happy to see us. More than a few of the people in the plaza would be facing criminal charges before the end of the day. Brothel owners exploiting underage children, slave traders, dealers in stolen goods, and others. A few federal law enforcement types were cutting the criminals from the herd, conducting interviews, and gathering evidence.
Gabriel found me and motioned for me to follow him. I put down the box I was carrying and went over.
“Any sign?” I asked as we walked.
He shook his head. “Birds searched all over the damn place. Didn’t see anything. Sons of bitches could have come out anywhere. No telling how long those tunnels are or where they lead.”
“Tyrel’s not happy, I’m guessing.”
“If you fed him a horseshoe right now he’d spit nails.”
We made our way through the swarm of people in the plaza toward a low-slung restaurant repurposed as a command center. Tyrel stood beyond the open doorway under a single Coleman lantern. Several folding tables sat before him, awash in maps. A tired looking radioman in a Blackthorn uniform sat in a chair nearby, his equipment in front of him. He pecked away at a laptop while Tyrel stared down at the table, hands on his hips, face in shadow. He turned his head as we walked in.
“Tell me you have good news.”
Gabe wiped sweat from his forehead. It was stiflingly hot in the room. “I could, but I’d be lying.”
A curse. “Y
ou were right all along about the tunnels. I should have listened.”
“Nothing for it now,” Gabriel said. “How many did we get?”
“Of the estimated hundred and sixty three marauders comprising the Storm Road Tribe, we managed to kill thirty-three and apprehend eleven. So forty-four all together.”
“And the rest scattered to hell and gone.”
I took a step closer to Tyrel. “You forgot an important statistic.”
He looked at me. “What?”
“Zero casualties on our side.”
A reluctant smile parted the clouds around my old friend’s face. “Well, not exactly. Florian sprained his ankle.”
“He’s a Blackthorn. Give him some whiskey and tell him to walk it off.”
A round of laughter. Even the radioman joined in. I smiled at Tyrel and slapped him on the arm. “Relax, brother. File this one under mission accomplished. We’ll get the rest of ‘em down the line.”
Tyrel had work to do, and we had nothing further to report, so we left him to it.
“Other than mollifying Tyrel,” I said to Gabe, “is there a reason you pulled me away from the plaza?”
“Yes. I’d like to get my trade back, except some Army prick isn’t letting any Blackthorns into the warehouse. Thought you might be able to help.”
“Let’s see.”
We approached a large wooden building which, up to that point, I had only seen from a distance. It was bigger than I thought it would be, and taller. And unlike most of the ramshackle buildings in Parabellum, this one looked well-constructed. The wood used to build it had been properly cured, the walls and doors were straight, and the ground it sat on looked to have been carefully leveled prior to construction. By contrast, the drinking hole down the street was comprised of blue tarpaulins, saplings tied together with old rope, and a crude sign out front that said, ‘BOOZE’. The bar itself was a wooden plank supported by two rusted steel barrels.
We approached one of the large openings that permitted wagons inside. The barn doors that secured it had been thrown open and I could see soldiers moving around inside. A pair of armed sentries blocked the entrance. We stopped in front of them. One was a specialist, the other a sergeant.