Storm of Ghosts (Surviving the Dead Book 8)

by James Cook

  My father and Blake were dead now, both killed in an attack by Army deserters, and Mike was in Oregon waging a guerilla war against the Republic of California. But Tyrel was right here in Colorado Springs, one of two people left from my old life. I knew I should go and see him, but I was hesitant. Our last meeting had not been under happy circumstances. I had just faced trial for felony assault and had been sentenced to four years in the Army. Tyrel visited me in jail where I was still recovering from the effects of severe alcohol withdrawal. Over two years had passed since then, and I had made no effort to contact Tyrel. I could have written a letter or sent a telegram, but was too ashamed of myself to do so. Whether or not I would receive a warm reception from my old friend was a question I wasn’t sure I was ready to explore.

  “Is anybody else hungry?” Sabrina said. Eric and Gabe stopped glowering at each other and turned toward her.

  “I could eat,” I said.

  “How about we all head down to the hotel restaurant?” Elizabeth suggested. The palpable intensity in the room dissipated.

  “Sure,” Gabe said. “Sounds good.”

  Sabrina was the first one out the door.

  SIX

  An hour later, after dinner, dessert, and a round of exorbitantly expensive instant coffee that I would not have fed to a pig before the Outbreak, Sabrina and Elizabeth announced they were retiring to the movie theater.

  “They have a movie theater here?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s more like a conference room with a wall projector connected to a DVD player,” Elizabeth said.

  “What’s playing tonight?”

  “The Help.”

  “Yeah, I think I’ll have to pass on that one.”

  Elizabeth turned to her husband. “What about you?”

  Gabe held out a hand. “Hi. Gabriel Garrett. Have you met me?”

  A smile. “All right, tough guy. Don’t stay up too late. And take it easy on the drinks. You have to work tomorrow.”

  Gabe looked at me. “See what happens when you put a ring on their finger? They think they own you.”

  “As I recall,” Elizabeth said as she stood up, “you proposed to me.”

  “I suppose I did. Enjoy your movie.”

  “I will. Have fun, boys.”

  Sabrina stopped to kiss her father on the temple. “Love you, Dad. See you later.”

  Gabe’s face softened so much he looked like a different person. “Love you too, sweetheart.”

  I grinned at him. When Sabrina was out of earshot, I said, “Dad? Sweetheart?”

  “You got a problem with it?”

  “Nope. Just never seen that side of you before.”

  “Contrary to popular belief,” Eric said, “Gabe is not heartless. Merciless in his anger and ruthless in his rage, yes. But in his better moments, not completely incapable of basic human compassion.”

  Gabe raised an eyebrow. “Did you just give me a compliment?”

  “Sort of. It was a bit underhanded, and I used a lot of big words to make it sound better.”

  “I guess the Ivy League education wasn’t worthless after all.”

  “Touché.”

  “When you two old hens are done pecking at each other,” I said, “I got something I want to talk to you about.”

  Gabe rolled his eyes. “Ah, Christ. Here it comes. The hell does Jacobs want this time?”

  We were interrupted by our waiter stopping by to see if we needed anything else. I asked if they had any pre-Outbreak hooch. He apologized and said they had run out two weeks ago, and there had been none on the auction markets since then. From this, I gathered that the salvage trade around the Springs was getting to be just as sparse as back in Hollow Rock.

  “I assume you have moonshine?” I asked.

  “Yes sir. Very good quality.”

  “Anything I might have heard of?”

  “Out top shelf is Stall’s Reserve, out of Tennessee. Have you heard of it?”

  The three of us looked at each other and burst out laughing.

  “You mean as in Mike Stall?” Eric asked. “The distiller?”

  “Yes sir.” The waiter looked surprised. “You’re familiar, I assume?”

  “Familiar?” Eric said. “Hell, the bastard took me for a box of .308 rounds last time we played Texas hold ‘em.”

  Gabe pointed a finger. “Don’t forget about the Henry rifle he won from you.”

  “Oh, believe me,” Eric said. “I haven’t.”

  The waiter’s smile had gone rigid. The restaurant was busy and he had other tables to attend. “Would you like me to put in a drink order?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Put it on my room tab, please.”

  “Of course. And your dinner?”

  “That too.”

  “For the entire party?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’ll be back shortly with your drinks, then.”

  We watched the waiter walk away. Gabe leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers across his chest. “Feeling generous?”

  “I have an expense account.”

  “The bean counters are going to be pissed at you.”

  “When the bean counters get off their asses and spend some time in the field, I might consider giving a shit what they think. Until then, they can lick the sweat off my balls.”

  “Well stated,” Eric said.

  Gabe smiled a little, but his gaze remained steady. “So you’re working for Jacobs now.”

  “He’s the guy I answer to, yes.”

  “I heard things are changing over at Cheyenne Mountain. Some higher-ups being shifted around.”

  I regarded Gabe closely for a second and reminded myself who I was talking to. His Kentucky accent and surly, blue-collar attitude were only a front. Beneath that veneer was one of the most brilliant minds on the face of the earth. He missed little and forgot nothing. His ability to analyze and glean conclusions from extremely small subsets of data was unmatched by anyone I had ever met. I would gain nothing by lying to him, or trying to conceal information. He’d figure out whatever it was regardless. So I opted for the direct approach.

  “Yes, some things have changed.”

  “Haven’t heard any announcements.”

  “They’re in the pipeline. The president and joint chiefs are still working things out.” I lowered my voice. “Just to get it out in the open, anything we say from here on out is classified. If you talk, I’ll deny we had this conversation.”

  Gabe nodded impatiently. “Duly noted. Let’s try not to spend all night stating the obvious.”

  Our drinks arrived. I took a pull from mine as soon as the waiter left. “Tell me what you heard, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “And me?” Eric asked.

  I nodded. “Same.”

  Eric tossed back his drink, put down his glass, and stood up. “Whatever it is, the answer is no. I’ve got some business deals to work out, and then I’m going home.”

  I held up a hand. “Eric, please-”

  “No,” He said sharply. “I’ve had it with this shit. I’m not a goddamn soldier, or a spook, or an operator, or whatever the hell you people call yourselves these days. I’m a business man with a wife and son. I took a few jobs for the government out of self-interest, not patriotism. I wanted to protect my home and the people I love. That’s it. The Alliance is gone, and Hollow Rock is as safe as it’s going to get. I’ve done my part and then some. From here on out, whoever the hell needs to be killed, it’s someone else’s problem. I’m out of it.”

  The dark blue eyes were not angry, but they were intense. I knew it would be pointless to argue.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll let Jacobs know you’re out.”

  Eric gave a short nod and left without another word. I looked at Gabe.

  “I notice you’re still here.”

  “That I am,” he said.

  I let out a long breath and drank some more moonshine. “So what
have you heard?”

  “I heard ASOC is going away and the president is reviving Joint Special Operations Command.”

  I nodded. “Yep.”

  “And General Jacobs is going to be heading it up, only with two stars on his insignia instead of one.”

  “Also true.”

  “And they need operators.”

  “Obviously.”

  “And they picked you.”

  “Not ‘they’. General Jacobs, personally. Had to overcome some objections to do it.”

  “Let me guess. You’re not SF, SEALs, MARSOC, or Delta, so they didn’t think you had the goods.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “And Jacobs convinced them otherwise.”

  “Convinced is probably too strong a word. More like they indulged him. If it doesn’t work out I’ll be dead, and they can give Jacobs the old told-you-so dance.”

  Gabe tapped his finger on the rim of his glass. “I guess that explains the black ID card.”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s your title?”

  “Officially, I’m a federal emissary.”

  “Which is just fancy speak for JSOC operator.”

  “Not entirely. There’s a civilian equivalent. Law enforcement types. You see, with all the survivor communities so spread out, jurisdiction has become a real problem. What’s left of the FBI, ATF, all those guys, it’s not enough. Too many laws, too many restrictions, too much getting in the way of them doing their jobs. And you’ve seen what it’s like for local cops.”

  “Not good,” Gabe said.

  “Not good at all. So the president appointed someone, and before you ask I don’t know who, to be overall in charge of national law enforcement. Someone above even the attorney general. Not just the feds, but all of it, all the way down to the local level. The civilian emissaries will officially be federal marshals. But much like JSOC operators, they’ll pretty much have carte blanche to do whatever it takes to restore law and order.”

  Gabe snorted. “Gee, I can’t see that going wrong at all.”

  “I didn’t say I thought it was a good idea.”

  “No. You didn’t. Sorry, I’ve been in a mood lately.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. Just getting used to things, you know? New city, new job…”

  “New wife, new daughter.”

  A tired smile. “That too.”

  “I was married once.” The pronouncement startled me. I had not intended to broach the subject; it just came out on its own.

  The serrated sharpness of Gabe’s eyes lessened. “I didn’t know that.”

  “I never said anything about it. Her name was Sophia. She was seven months pregnant when she died. A little girl. I was out on a salvage run with Tyrel Jennings when it happened. I had the bodies cremated, and me and some guys on my salvage team and some folks from our neighborhood had a memorial service. We were living in the refugee district back then. It wasn’t so bad in those days.”

  “What did you do afterward?”

  “You know, I don’t really remember much of it. I think mostly I tried to drink myself to death.”

  “Jesus, Caleb.”

  “You’ve seen my file, right?”

  Gabe furrowed his brow. “Yeah. Why?”

  “You know how I ended up in the Army?”

  “Yes.”

  I finished my drink. “Well, now you know why.”

  Neither of us spoke for a while. I looked around the restaurant. It had been built after the Outbreak, everything constructed of wood and scavenged materials. The tables and chairs all matched, probably built by the same carpenter. The bar was stained and polished, the walls dark and welcoming in an earthy sort of way. There was dim electrical lighting, and I heard the low hum of a generator from somewhere outside the building. The waiter came by and I ordered another drink. Gabe declined.

  “So anyway,” I said finally. “I got a mission for you if you’re interested.”

  “I already have a job. A good one. I’m not hurting for trade.”

  “I know. And General Jacobs knows that too. He’s offering a quid pro quo arrangement.”

  Gabe went still. “Please elaborate.”

  “The trade you lost to the Storm Road Tribe. He’s offering to help you get it back.”

  The big man laughed quietly. “Assuming it hasn’t been spent already. Damn raiders have had it for weeks. Who knows how much is left?”

  “Quite a lot, according to the people Jacobs has watching the raiders who took it.”

  The smile left his face. “The GPS trackers. The ones I planted on their wagons.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Where are they?”

  “Marauder settlement down in Arkansas. Locals call the place Parabellum. The Storm Road Tribe took it over not long after the rescue mission.”

  Gabe looked away and drummed his fingers on the table. “Sons of bitches. So it’s all in one place?”

  “What’s left of it, yes. They spent some of it.”

  “How much?”

  “Hard to say. The operators watching the place counted more than fifty steel barrels in a warehouse matching the description of the ones on your recovery claim.”

  “Fifty.” Gabe muttered. “A lot less than what I left with, but still…”

  “It ain’t chicken feed.”

  “No, it certainly is not.” He looked up at me. “So what’s the catch?”

  I told him as much as I knew. He listened quietly, gaze wandering around the room. I knew Gabe listened with his ears and not his eyes, and I knew he wouldn’t miss a single word. When I was done, he did not speak for a while.

  Finally he said, “Tell Jacobs I want to talk face to face. And whatever we agree on, if we agree on anything, will need to be in writing.”

  “I’ll relay the message.”

  SEVEN

  The Mountain View Hotel had a rooftop patio with a bar and a stage for live music. Being a weeknight, the live music was a young woman with a violin playing slow, mournful instrumentals of old folk songs. Eric was sitting alone at the bar nursing clear liquor in a glass with two small ice cubes. I took a seat next to him.

  “No,” he said.

  “No what?”

  “You know exactly what I mean.”

  “The mission? I’m not here to talk about that.”

  He turned to me and blinked. He’d had two drinks after dinner, and I was guessing he was well past his third. Probably past his fifth or sixth.

  “Well, what do you want?” he asked.

  “If you’re not sober enough for a serious conversation, I can wait until tomorrow.”

  He put down his drink. “I wouldn’t want to operate a motor vehicle at the moment, but if I stop now I’ll be fine.”

  “So you’ll remember the conversation?”

  “Yes. What’s on your mind?”

  The bartender came over and asked what I wanted. I asked if he had anything other than liquor.

  “Yeah. Beer,” he said.

  “I’ll have a beer then.”

  He poured one from a white oak barrel and set it down in front of me. I tried it. It wasn’t bad.

  “It’s about Miranda,” I said.

  Eric’s face grew concerned. “What about her? She okay? You get a message or something?”

  “She’s fine.” I held up a mollifying hand. “But yes, I got a message from her today.”

  “What about?”

  I took a moment to organize my thoughts before responding. “The job General Jacobs has me doing is a permanent assignment. I’ll be stationed in the Springs for the rest of my time in the Army.”

  Eric is a lot of things, but dumb is not one of them. Even slightly inebriated, he quickly put the equation together. One of his elbows rested itself on the bar and he put his forehead in his palm.

  “So where does that leave you two?”

  “She wants to move here.”

  Eric folded his arms and laid his head down on them. He stayed tha
t way for a solid minute. The bartender came over with a pinched expression on his face. I waved him off. He did not look happy, but he let us be for the moment.

  “You still with me Eric?”

  “Yes.” His voice was muffled, but steady.

  “You gonna say something?”

  He sat up and stared at the line of sharp mountains to the west. The sun had just sank behind the peaks, casting the distant range in hues of fiery orange and neon pink. The sky darkened as it stretched away from the sunset, fading from cornflower blue to dark cobalt. Nightfall was not far away.

  “What is there to say? She’s in love with you. Any idiot can see that. She wants to be with you. I want her to be happy. I’m guessing we both have that sentiment in common.”

  “Eric, it’s not that simple and you know it.”

  He picked up his drink and sipped it delicately. “You see, that’s where you’re wrong. It is exactly that simple.”

  “You saved her life. More importantly, you gave her back her freedom. You helped her through the kind of trauma most people don’t survive. She cares about you. She feels like she owes you.”

  “She doesn’t owe me anything.”

  “Good luck convincing her of that.”

  Eric turned in his stool so he could face me. “If you’re worried I’m going to get upset, don’t be. Miranda is a free woman. She can do whatever she wants. I’m not going to pretend I’ll be happy to see her go. In fact, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do without her. She pretty much runs my business for me.”

  “That’s what’s got her concerned. She doesn’t want to leave you in the lurch.”

  “When is she leaving?”

  “Not until you get back and hire some more people.”

  Eric pondered that. “She’ll need to train them. Might take a few weeks.”

  “Tell her to take her time. There’s no rush. I’m going to be busy the next few months anyway.”

  “Your mission?”

  “Missions. Plural.”

  “Just out of curiosity, who are you going after?”

  “I can tell you the first mission is for Gabe. We’re going after the Storm Road Tribe.”