Storm of Ghosts (Surviving the Dead Book 8)

by James Cook

  There were no caravans in sight, just Heinrich’s tribe and the four carts and eight horses they had stolen. The opium was wrapped in scraps of cloth scavenged from houses back at the river and hidden inside the containers of seed grain. Unless the local inspectors dumped the crates on the ground, they were unlikely to find the opium. Heinrich was grateful drug dogs were no longer an issue. Most domesticated canines had died during the Outbreak.

  Security at the gate was impressive. There were men with scoped rifles in a pair of watchtowers and four armed guards on the ground behind thick bastions of sandbags. A heavy machine gun sat front and center, a guard standing behind it. As the tribe grew closer, the guard checked the machine gun’s chamber and took aim in their direction. One of the guards held up a hand, palm out, and blew three sharp notes on a whistle.

  “Hold it right there,” he shouted.

  Heinrich signaled the tribe to a halt. “Wait here,” he shouted, then jumped down from his wagon and approached the gate.

  “That’s far enough,” the guard said when he was about ten feet away. The man on the machine gun trained his weapon in Heinrich’s direction. Heinrich stopped and stood still, hands in the air.

  “State your business.”

  “Here to trade,” Heinrich said.

  “For what?”

  “Livestock and wagons.”

  The guard looked Heinrich up and down, then peered back at his convoy. “Lot of men you got there for only having four wagons.”

  “Like I said, that’s why we’re here. Got hit by raiders back in Kansas. Got us at night, kept us pinned down while a bunch of assholes snuck into our holding pen. Managed to fight ‘em off, but they got away with most of our trade. Horses, wagons, all of it.”

  “How many people you lose?” the guard asked.

  “Eleven dead, four wounded,” Heinrich said, not missing a beat. “We left the wounded back near Spring River. Farming co-op there agreed to help ‘em in exchange for some seed grain.”

  “Seed grain, huh. That what you’re trading?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Let’s take a look. Call the wagons forward, but tell your people to stay put.”

  Heinrich walked back to the convoy. “They’re buying it so far,” he said to Ferguson and Maru. “You two drive the first two wagons. Get Locke and Horton to drive the other two.”

  “What about you, Chief?” Maru asked.

  “I’ll walk. And don’t fucking call me chief. We’re supposed to be traders.”

  “Right. Sorry.”

  Heinrich followed as his men drove the wagons to the gate. When they arrived, the lead guard and one of his men climbed into the back of the first wagon.

  “Open ‘em up,” the leader said.

  Ferguson complied, prying the lid off one of the crates with a crowbar. The guard stuck his hands inside and moved them around. Heinrich kept his breathing steady and his face blank. His men did the same. They had all dealt with guards and cops and soldiers before, and knew how to maintain a poker face. It was why Heinrich had chosen them to accompany him for the inspection.

  “This one’s clean,” the leader said. “Hit the other wagons. I’ll finish up here.”

  “Got it,” the other guard said.

  Ten minutes later, the guards were finished. The crates were fairly large, the grain within tightly packed. After six or seven inspections, the guards grew bored of their task and simply went through the motions.

  “Okay, you can button ‘em up,” the lead guard said. Ferguson nodded silently and proceeded to reseal the crates. The lead guard turned to his assistant.

  “Daley, get Fortner and Pall out here. Check the wagons. Make sure there’s no false bottoms or anything underneath the floorboards or in the axles or wheels or anything.”

  “Will do,” Daley said.

  The lead guard went back to his post and drank a ladle of water from a bucket behind a pile of sandbags. He watched with bored eyes while the other three guards checked over the wagons. Heinrich and his men stood aside looking equally bored, only this time they did not have to fake it. Now that the danger had passed, they were ready to get within the walls and find a place to rest for the night.

  Twenty minutes stretched by before the guards gave their boss the all clear. He acknowledged them, then handed an empty sandbag to each man. They approached the wagons and ordered Ferguson to open a crate of grain.

  “The hell for?” the giant rumbled, his ruddy face darkening.

  The guards were not intimidated. One of them half-raised his rifle in Ferguson’s direction.

  “Because I fucking told you to,” the lead guard said. “Unless you want to turn your little wagons around and fuck off to the next town. Shouldn’t take you long. It’s only about a hundred miles away.”

  “It’s all right,” Heinrich said, motioning for Ferguson to back off. “Let them take their cut.”

  The lead guard smiled and pointed. “Now there’s a reasonable man.”

  Minutes later, their sandbags filled with half a crate of valuable seed grain, the guards finally opened the gate and allowed the tribe through. As they went inside, Ferguson leaned down so he could speak quietly to his chief.

  “I’m gonna find where that fucker lives and skin him alive.”

  “Later,” Heinrich said. “For now, we maintain a low profile. Once we offload the dope, you can do whatever you want. Until then, we don’t do anything to attract attention.”

  “Might want to tell the men that.”

  “We’ll have a tribal council as soon as we get settled in.”

  Ferguson stood up straight and gave a skeptical laugh. “That should be interesting.”

  TWENTY-SIX

  “So here’s how it’s going down,” Horton said.

  Heinrich sat back in his folding chair. He and the rest of his tribe were camped in The Holdout’s caravan district. They had been there for two days, and the men were getting restless. Heinrich had given them strict orders to avoid drunkenness, brawling, thievery, and excessive whoring. They were allowed to have a few drinks and satisfy their base sexual urges, but only in moderation. Heinrich had instructed them to travel in packs of no more than four men, and the senior man was to take charge and ensure no one got out of hand. So far, things had gone well. But Heinrich knew his tribe, and he knew the clock was ticking. Before long, someone would screw up and he would have to make an example out of them. He did not want this. Not that he particularly cared about hurting people, but his tribe was diminished and morale was already low. Disciplinary actions now were likely to inspire desertions he could ill afford.

  “I’m all ears,” Heinrich said. He could hear the relief in his own voice.

  Horton grabbed a camp stool from the back of Heinrich’s wagon and sat down close to his chief. He kept his voice low.

  “I got a buyer lined up,” Horton said. “But it ain’t gonna be easy. He a cagey motherfucker. Agree on a price ahead of time, then offer half when you show up to make the deal. Say take it or leave it.”

  Heinrich nodded slowly. “How many men does he have?”

  “Not too many. Maybe ten in his crew. Don’t matter though. He got friends with the cops and the Army. Be a lot of heat, he decide to call it in.”

  “Where’s the meet?”

  “Warehouse next to the livery over on Market Street. The one across the street from the big hotel.”

  Heinrich knew exactly where Horton was referring to. The Holdout was not a large town, maybe twice the size of Parabellum. And like Parabellum, it was laid out in a grid pattern around a central plaza. The warehouse, livery, and hotel in question were well away from the plaza near the north side of town.

  “When?”

  “Whenever we ready.”

  “What’s the buyer’s name?”

  “People around here call him T-Low.”

  Heinrich turned his head. “T-Low?”

  Horton shrugged. “Hey, that’s what they call him.”

  “Fucking C
hrist. This T-Low idiot have any family? Girlfriend? Anybody he cares about?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Take Locke and Stanton and find out. Don’t let him see you. I want to know everything about this guy. His friends, business associates, loved ones, places he hangs out, his favorite whore, all of it. You’ve got forty-eight hours.”

  Horton stood up. “I’m on it, Chief.”

  *****

  The buy was at midnight.

  Heinrich almost laughed when Horton delivered the news. What was it with these small time gangsters and their movie clichés? If this T-Low character was as connected as Horton said he was, why not just do the buy in the back alley of a restaurant or something? Heinrich had seen enough commerce in town to know the authorities mostly ignored business-to-business trade. They were too busy chasing petty thieves and cracking drunks over the head and settling domestic disputes. Who cared if a couple of traders exchanged nondescript boxes of uninteresting trade goods?

  The answer seemed simple: T-Low didn’t want anyone knowing about the exchange. Which meant whoever was really in charge around here would want a cut of his profits. Heinrich had taken this into account when formulating his plan for tonight. Not that he’d need the extra leverage; he had enough of that already.

  The fact that T-Low desired secrecy also solved the problem of keeping the cops out of things, provided Heinrich’s men did their jobs correctly. After the hard times his tribe had faced since leaving Parabellum, it was enough to make Heinrich think his luck was turning.

  Ferguson, Locke, Maru, Horton, and a truly evil son of a bitch named Rourke followed Heinrich as he made his way to the warehouse. They walked down muddy streets strewn with garbage, piss, and the sleeping homeless. There seemed to be a lot of those in this place. It was a trade town. Not a lot of farming, logging, or manufacturing going on, which meant high unemployment. The only people who seemed capable of producing goods and services were the town’s three fiercely competing blacksmiths, the innkeepers who brewed terrible whiskey, worse beer, and barely edible food, and the plentitude of whores.

  Heinrich observed the buildings as he passed them. Only a very few houses looked well-constructed, obviously meant for the wealthiest members of the community. The labor must have been brought in from elsewhere, because everything else looked to have been built by a drunken ten-year-old. Whoever did the work evidently was unaware that freshly cut lumber needed to be cured before use. There was nary a straight board or plumb vertical line to be seen. Warped planks lined uneven walls, large gaps allowed in bugs and the stares of curious onlookers, and shingles dangled precariously from wavy, uneven rooftops. He imagined the boomtowns of the old west must have looked something like this.

  Ought to change the name of this place, Heinrich thought. The Holdout doesn’t quite do it justice. Should call it The Shithole.

  Given a choice between living here and dodging infected in the wastelands, Heinrich decided he’d rather take his chances with the ghouls.

  Around a corner, the warehouse came into view. Like the structures in the more affluent parts of town, it did not look like it was about to fall over. Rather, it appeared sturdy and well built. Heinrich noted the security patrols. They were exactly where his men had said they would be. He stopped and turned to the crew with him, a half smile on his scarred face.

  “You ready to go to work?”

  Their fierce expressions were all the answer he needed.

  The six men strode to the warehouse entrance, where a gun-toting guard stopped them.

  “What do you want?” he asked, finger on the trigger.

  “T-Low is expecting us,” Heinrich said.

  The guard looked him and his retinue over. “Wait here.”

  They waited. Several minutes passed. Heinrich knew he was being kept waiting for the sake of keeping him waiting. It was enough to make him shake his head. Amateurs always did stupid shit like this. It was a sign of insecurity, a weak man’s paltry effort at establishing dominance. Heinrich wondered if it ever occurred to people like T-Low that a man who spent weeks at a time sleeping in the dirt, eating like a caveman, and crossing miles of ghoul-infested wastelands on foot would probably not chafe at having to stand and do nothing for a few minutes.

  Stupid.

  Finally the door opened. “Come on in,” the guard said.

  Heinrich and his men entered. The warehouse was dark except for a pool of light in the center. The warehouse was crowded with goods, preventing Heinrich from seeing the source of the light. Piles of boxes, crates, barrels, and earthen pots were stacked high all around, but the layout was sensible and the path to the light was easy to follow.

  Which was exactly why Heinrich didn’t follow it.

  The last man in was Rourke. As he passed the guard he suddenly turned, hit the man with an open-handed strike to the throat, and pulled him inside. Ferguson grabbed the man by the jaw and the back of his head, lifted him off the ground, and casually snapped his neck. Rourke pulled the door shut and put the bar in place. No one would be coming in from outside. Not through the main entrance at least.

  Ferguson lifted the dead body easily and tossed it atop a pile of wooden boxes, then stood on tip-toe to look at his handiwork.

  “He’s out of sight, Chief.”

  “Good,” Heinrich said. “Let’s get to work.”

  He reached into the collar of his shirt, pulled out a radio earpiece attached to a cord, and turned the dial to activate the radio tucked into the small of his back. As he did so, he and his men moved deeper into the shadows, staying parallel to the light source.

  “This is Chief,” he said, keying his mic. “Lopez, what you got for me?”

  “You’re clear straight ahead, no obstructions,” Lopez replied. He had entered the warehouse earlier in the day by scaling a wall in the back using a rope and grappling hook, then gained entrance by sliding his narrow torso through an opening in a wide, louvered window. Once inside, he had taken position in the shadows of the high rafters and waited. When he heard the guard explaining to T-Low that Heinrich had arrived, he activated the stolen night vision scope he had smuggled in with him and was now his chief’s eye in the sky.

  “Hostiles?” Heinrich asked.

  “Four outside, three more inside, including T-Low. Fucker wants you to think he’s alone, but he’s got two guys with AKs on top of boxes set up for a crossfire.”

  “Positions?”

  Lopez relayed where the gunmen were in relation to Heinrich’s position. The raider chief turned to Maru and Rourke, who also wore radios and were listening in. He motioned for them to deal with the gunmen.

  “Lopez, Chief. Let me know when the job’s done.”

  “Copy, Chief.”

  Heinrich waved the rest of his men behind cover. They carried no firearms so as not to arouse suspicion with the guards, but did wear concealed knives. Heinrich knew Maru and Rourke were stealthy, and deadly with a blade. He did not expect to be waiting long.

  “Chief, Lopez. Targets are down. Rourke and Maru got their guns.”

  “Maru, Rourke, this is Chief. Eyes on T-Low. Lopez, keep a lookout for anyone else entering the building.”

  “Copy, Chief.”

  Heinrich stood and motioned for Horton, Locke, and Ferguson to follow him. The four raiders walked toward the light source in the center of the warehouse. After a minute or two, they left the rows of stored goods and emerged onto a broad earthen walkway spanning the middle of the warehouse from one end to the other. In the center of this was a support column as big around as Ferguson’s barrel chest. A burning oil lantern hung from a long metal hook bolted to the post, and beneath it, a man lounged on a plush leather recliner.

  “Glad you could finally make it,” the man said, smiling. He pushed the handle on the side of the recliner forward and stood up.

  “So you’re T-Low,” Heinrich said.

  “Guilty as charged.” The man’s smile remained in place.

  Heinrich examined him. He was av
erage height and build, and wore a tight-fitting shirt to emphasize the lean, whipcord muscles of his arms and torso. As he walked toward Heinrich, the raider chief could tell by the way T-Low moved he was not a man to underestimate. Heinrich had seen plenty of guys like him before: far stronger than they looked, fast as vipers, and ten times as mean. The kind of men who killed as easily as most people tied their shoes.

  As T-Low drew close, Heinrich saw he had dark hair,olive skin, and a broad, slightly hooked nose. Italian, probably.

  “So I hear you got something for me,” T-Low said, speaking with a pronounced New Jersey accent.

  “Only if you have something for me,” Heinrich replied. It took everything he had not to laugh at the idiot in front of him. He had no idea what was coming.

  “Come take a look.”

  T-Low pulled the lantern from the hook and began walking toward the other end of the warehouse. He moved with confidence, a man assured of his position of power. Heinrich looked over his shoulder and let one side of his mouth tilt up. His men gave him knowing looks and small smiles. They were enjoying this.

  Heinrich was too.

  “I see you got a radio,” T-Low said as they walked.

  Heinrich said nothing.

  “Where you get tech like that? Don’t see that kind of thing much outside the Army. You hit a military convoy or somethin’?”

  “Anybody ever tell you it’s not healthy to ask too many questions?” Ferguson said.

  “Hey, just making conversation.”

  They reached the back of the building and T-Low hung the lantern from another long iron hook. The light revealed four long-bedded carts complete with buckboards, yokes, and harnesses.

  “There they are. Your shiny new rides.”

  Heinrich looked where T-Low pointed. “There’s only four. I asked for eight.”

  “This is all I could get.”

  “Bullshit,” Heinrich said. “There’s a whole goddamn dealership full of the things outside of town. I saw it on the way in. And where’s the fucking oxen?”