Storm of Ghosts (Surviving the Dead Book 8)

by James Cook

  “Your cows are in the livery next door. Eight of ‘em.”

  Heinrich pinched his nose between his fingers. “I asked for eight carts and four oxen for each one. That’s thirty-two oxen. You’re short by twenty-four. You know how to fucking count, right?”

  The smile left T-Low’s face. His eyes drifted over Heinrich’s shoulder and he very deliberately scratched the back of his head. Heinrich suppressed a smile.

  “Listen fellas. I hate to give you the bad news, but the deal has changed. You see, wagons cost a lot and livestock is in high demand. So the price you offered me just isn’t enough to get what you want. This is the best I can do for you.”

  “You’re lying,” Heinrich said. “You think I’m fucking stupid? You think I didn’t send my men around to find the going rates for the shit I’m buying? The dream I’m selling you is worth twice what I’m asking for, even wholesale.”

  T-Low sighed. “Okay, fine. I guess the delicate approach isn’t going to work. So let me put it to you another way.” At this, his eyes grew hard and Heinrich saw the ruthless monster hiding under the surface. It almost made him regret what was about to happen. Under different circumstances, he could have used a man like T-Low.

  “Here’s the deal. You’re gonna give me all the dream you got. I’m gonna be nice and give you these wagons and the cows, mostly because I can’t do shit with them and I want you to fucking leave. That’s the best deal you’re gonna get. If it ain’t good enough, I’ll just take your fucking dream and sell the shit I’m fronting you, and have the cops haul your asses out of town. You see, we have a little arrangement. I help them out, they help me out. I need someone gone, they get ‘em gone. And if you try to fight, the Army will hammer your asses into paste. Now, I’m trying to be reasonable here. I got a reputation to maintain. You give me what I want, you get the wagons and cows, and we all walk away happy. Give me any shit, and things are gonna get real bad for you.” T-Low held out his hands. “So what’s it gonna be?”

  Heinrich looked at his men, and the mirth they had been holding in finally let loose. The four of them laughed loudly, tears running down their cheeks, hands on their knees. Ferguson had to squat down and put a hand on the ground to keep from falling over. The assured confidence on T-Low’s face became strained and brittle.

  “The fuck you laughing at?” he demanded.

  When Heinrich could breathe again, he stood up straight, wiped his eyes, and smiled at T-Low. Whatever T-Low saw in that smile made him take a nervous step backward.

  “Kid, you’re so full of shit it’s no wonder your skin is brown. Let me tell you what’s going to happen. You’re not gonna tell the cops a goddamn thing. Or the Army, or anyone else. And I’ll tell you why. You don’t want anyone to know we’re here right now. Not that I give a rat’s ass, but it makes me curious who’s pulling your strings.”

  T-Low looked over Heinrich’s shoulder again, made a little spinning motion in the air, and dropped flat on the ground. He lay there for several seconds, then looked up, his face a mask of incredulity.

  “Jimmy!” he shouted. “Raw Dog! The fuck you doin’?”

  Heinrich’s grin broadened. Behind him, he could hear his crew chuckling. “I don’t think they can hear you anymore, T-Low.” He turned around. “Maru, Rourke, come on out.”

  The whisper of their footsteps crunched the dirt as they approached. After a few moments they appeared in the yellow-orange glow of the lantern’s light. Maru’s shirt was covered in blood, and Rourke’s lean, angular face held a nasty grin. Both carried the guns they had seized from the men they killed.

  Heinrich put a finger to his earpiece. “Stanton, Chief. Give me a status on the perimeter guards.”

  A chuckle came over the radio channel. “What guards? All we got out here is buzzard meat.”

  “Roger that. Chop ‘em, bag ‘em, and bury ‘em somewhere out of sight. No witnesses.” Heinrich looked down at T-Low. “Looks like you’re all out of friends.”

  The raider chief took a knee in front of the still prostrate hoodlum. T-Low’s face had gone pale, eyes wide in the firelight. The veins in his neck pulsed quickly and his breath came in shallow gulps. Heinrich leaned close so he could speak in a low voice.

  “How’s your sister, T-Low? Where is she tonight?”

  The man went still. He neither moved nor breathed for several seconds, then came up to his knees.

  “What did you do to her?”

  Heinrich reached into a cargo pocket on his leg and removed a small bundle of black cloth. He handed it to T-Low.

  “Oh, not much. Yet.”

  T-Low unwound the bundle with shaking hands. The cloth fell away and revealed a single severed finger. On the finger was a slim gold band with a heart-shaped ruby setting. T-Low’s mouth worked soundlessly a few times, then he dropped the finger like it was on fire and scooted backwards on his hands and feet until his back hit a wagon wheel. He stayed there, breathing heavily and staring in anguish at the cleanly cut digit lying on the bare dirt floor.

  “No, no, no, no, no. Not Marie. Not her. Please God no. She’s all I got.”

  Heinrich stood up, walked over to T-Low, and sat down beside him so their shoulders were touching. “It’s hard to take in, I know. But you have to see things from my perspective.”

  T-Low’s gaze slowly shifted from the finger to Heinrich’s face. Ferguson stepped forward and loomed over T-Low, his nearly seven foot frame blocking the lantern’s light and casting the small-time gangster in darkness.

  “I knew about your connections before I came here tonight,” Heinrich said. “The cops, the Army, all of it. You see, we’re not just a bunch of redneck traders hawking seeds and dream so we can buy enough food to get through the winter. That’s what you thought we were, right?”

  T-Low continued to stare wordlessly.

  “It’s okay, you don’t have to answer.” Heinrich patted T-Low on the leg. “As you’ve probably already figured out, we’re a little more organized than that. Anyway, getting back to my original point, you have to look at things from where I stand. Going into this deal, I had a few options to consider. I knew you were going to try to fuck me. You’re a cheap amateur hood, and that’s what you small time assholes do. Problem is, you didn’t know who you were dealing with. I did. And that’s where the trouble started for you.”

  Heinrich stood up and paced slowly in front of where T-Low sat. Ferguson stepped aside to give him room.

  “My first problem was your crew. Not much of a problem, really. I got close to a hundred trained killers in my tribe. Your little band of smashed dicks didn’t stand a chance. But my thinking was after I kill them, and turn the tables on you, I still need you to procure my wagons and livestock. The dream is the only thing I have valuable enough to pay for that, and you have the connections to make it happen. I don’t. Not here, anyway. And I doubt the local authorities would take kindly to me going around trying to buy shit with illegal narcotics. I can’t spend the seed grain either because it’s not enough to cover everything I need. And if I get rid of the grain, what would be my cover for going into Colorado Springs, right?”

  Heinrich looked down at T-Low. The man’s shocked expression had not changed.

  “But you don’t care about that part. Forget I mentioned it. Anyway, so the dream was the only way to pay for the wagons and everything else. What I needed was someone with enough working capital to buy my equipment in advance, and then let me pay them back with the opium. That’s where you came in. And you know what? I was willing to deal straight. Last thing I need is an Army patrol catching me with a giant fucking shipment of dope. But then Horton,” Heinrich pointed to his henchman, “came to me and told me what kind of player you were, how you like to cheat people. I had my guys look into you and, lo and behold, it turns out you have a sister.”

  Heinrich stopped pacing and held out his hands.

  “In that moment, I had an epiphany. Why pay for the wagons and livestock at all? Christ’s sake, I was starting to act
like one of those sad chumps that actually deal with people honestly. Five years of robbing and stealing and taking whatever the fuck I want, and a few months of easy living got me acting like a humble shopkeeper. I tell you, I’m almost grateful I got chased out of Parabellum. It’s been an eye opening experience. Reminded me of who I am.”

  Heinrich started pacing again. “But you don’t care about any of that, and this isn’t a therapy session. So let’s get to the point. I got the lay of the land and figured, why not just kidnap your sister, keep the dope, and make you buy me the wagons and livestock on your own dime? And while I’m at it, why not have you throw in some weapons and ammunition? We’re kind of low on bullets lately.”

  T-Low blinked a few times and Heinrich saw the wheels in his brain start turning again. He stood and held up his hands.

  “Okay, look man, whatever you want. Just don’t hurt Marie.”

  Heinrich pointed at the severed finger. “Little late for that.”

  T-Low closed his eyes and swallowed. “I mean, don’t do anything else to her. Please.”

  “Well, T-Low…” Heinrich paused. “You know what, I’m tired of calling you T-Low. It’s about the stupidest nickname I’ve ever heard. What’s your real name?”

  “Anthony Lorenzetti.”

  “Ah. T is short for Tony, which is short for Anthony. Low is short for Lorenzetti. I get it. Still a fucking stupid name, but I get it. Anyway, like I was saying, whether or not any further ill fortune befalls your dear sister is entirely up to you.”

  “I’ll get what you want,” Lorenzetti said. “But I wasn’t lying when I said these wagons and the eight oxes were all I could get. It’s all I had trade for.”

  “First of all, Anthony, it’s oxen, not oxes. Read a fucking book or something. Second, how is that my problem?”

  Lorenzetti’s lip began to quiver. “Look, I swear to God, I can’t buy what you’re asking me for. I can if you give me some dream, though.”

  Heinrich keyed his radio. “Stanton, do me a solid. Go find Griffin and tell him to bring us another piece of the girl. Maybe a nipple this time.”

  “Copy, Chief. On it.”

  “Wait!” Lorenzetti screamed. “For fuck’s sake, I’m telling you the truth. Please, just give me some of the dope and I can get you whatever you want.”

  Heinrich glared at the young man for a long instant, then turned to Ferguson. “You believe him?”

  A shrug. “Probably telling the truth.”

  “Mr. Ferguson here knows a lie when he hears one,” Heinrich said. He keyed his radio again. “Hey Stanton, belay my last. Leave her alone for now.”

  “Copy Chief.”

  “Horton, how much does he need?” Heinrich said.

  “Probably ‘bout six kilos.”

  “That work for you, Anthony?”

  He nodded quickly. “Yeah, yeah, I can make that work.”

  “You have twenty four hours. After that, my guys go to work on your sister. We clear?”

  “Yeah, I got it. I’ll get your stuff, I swear.”

  “Good. I’m glad we had this talk.” A click of the radio. “All stations, we’re done here. Let’s get some rack time. Busy day tomorrow.”

  Heinrich got a round of affirmatives. As he walked toward the front door of the warehouse, he called over his shoulder.

  “I’d get started if I were you, Lorenzetti. Clock’s ticking.”

  As Heinrich and his men emerged into the street, Ferguson fell into step next to his chief. “Gotta say, that was nicely done. You had that guy shitting his pants.”

  “Take it as a lesson, Ferg,” Heinrich said. “You can get whatever you want out of people if you push the right buttons. It’s all about leverage.”

  “You and Archimedes,” Ferguson said.

  Heinrich raised an eyebrow. Ferguson never ceased to surprise him with his knowledge of the classics.

  “Give me a lever long enough,” Heinrich said, “and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “What do we do with the girl?” Ferguson asked.

  Heinrich looked up from the book he was reading. He was sitting in Marie Lorenzetti’s small but comfortable living room. She lived in an undersized two-bedroom trailer that someone, most likely her brother, had hauled within the town’s walls and set up on a spot of level ground. There was no electricity or running water within, but a wood stove had been installed in the kitchen, there was a privy outside, and it was a short walk to the municipal water supply.

  “She still in shock?”

  Ferguson gave her a kick. She writhed in her bindings, jaw and lips working against the duct tape covering her mouth. The ring finger on her left hand was missing. In its place was a blistered mess of black, cauterized flesh and protruding bone. Heinrich knew the pain must have been excruciating. It certainly had been when he’d lost two of his fingers to a Blackthorn’s kukri.

  “Looks like she’s come out of it,” Ferguson said.

  Heinrich looked at his watch. “Your brother has ten minutes,” he said to Marie. “After that, I’m afraid we’ll have to get the bolt cutters and fire up the stove again.”

  Marie squeezed her eyes together and began weeping. Small, anguished sounds came from her chest, and her shoulders shook spasmodically. Heinrich watched her for a few seconds, then went back to his book. It was one of his favorites, Robinson Crusoe. The sound of the girl crying was a bit of an annoyance—Heinrich preferred to read in silence—but under the circumstances there was really nothing for it. He did his best to ignore her.

  With two minutes left, there was a frantic knock at the door. Heinrich nodded to Ferguson, who drew a large bore revolver from under his black leather jacket and pointed it at the door as he opened it. The way he was positioned, the gun was invisible to anyone standing outside. But Ferguson could shoot them through the flimsy door if he needed to.

  “I got it,” Anthony Lorenzetti said, standing on the porch, chest heaving.

  Heinrich looked to Ferguson. The big man gave a short nod, and Heinrich motioned for the young man to enter. Ferguson shut the door behind him and locked it.

  “Where?” Heinrich asked.

  “At your camp in the caravan district.”

  “All eight wagons?”

  “Yeah, all of ‘em.”

  “And all thirty-two oxen?”

  “Yeah, I told you, I got it all.”

  “And the food, ammo, guns, fresh water, feed grain, all that stuff?”

  Lorenzetti sighed. “I swear on my mother’s grave, man, it’s all there. Go see for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

  “Got any dream left over?”

  “Half a kilo,” Lorenzetti said. “I gave it to that big Australian guy.”

  “You must mean Maru.”

  “Yeah, him.”

  “For the record, Maru is not Australian. He’s Maori, and he’s from New Zealand. If you like your teeth, don’t ever call him Australian to his face.”

  Lorenzetti shook his head and made an exasperated gesture with his hands. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Can you cut Marie loose now?”

  Heinrich stood up, stuffed the book in his assault pack, put it on, and stood in front of Lorenzetti. “Not yet. I’m going to leave you here with Ferguson for the moment. Rourke is skulking around outside, so if you’re thinking about running, don’t. If Ferg doesn’t get you, Rourke sure as hell will. And believe me, you don’t want that guy getting his hands on you. Ferg here is efficient. Gets the job done quick. Rourke, well…let’s just say he takes pleasure in his work. And when he’s finished with you, he’ll come back here for Marie. Get the picture?”

  Lorenzetti swallowed. “Yeah, I got it.”

  “Good.” Heinrich patted him twice on the cheek and left.

  Half an hour later he was back in the caravan district. A thorough inspection of the wagons, livestock, and cargo revealed Lorenzetti had been telling the truth. Between what the tribe had stolen in Oklahoma and what the
y had acquired in The Holdout, they now had twelve wagons, eight horses, and thirty-two oxen. Five of the wagons would be used for cargo, and the rest were purpose built for carrying personnel. As long as the trail was favorable, all his men would be able to ride to Colorado. Heinrich doubted the trail would be favorable the whole way. There would probably be a lot of walking and putting shoulders to wheels in the mud and rain and making repairs on the move. But it beat the hell out of being destitute, hungry, and low on ammo.

  Speaking of ammo, Heinrich thought.

  He went to a wagon loaded with long rectangular wooden crates. He opened one, and inside were twenty Colt M-4 rifles. Not the fully-automatic military kind, however. These were semi-automatic versions the Army had been loaning to communities under Union treaty for the last couple of years. Heinrich found this curious. The rifles had to have been manufactured before the Outbreak, and the government seemed to have a virtually limitless supply of them, not to mention ammo. It was as if, before the Outbreak, they had known something no one else did.

  Not that it mattered now.

  There were five crates, which meant enough rifles for all of his men. There were also a few medium sized crates of ammunition, each containing 8,400 rounds of military issue cartridges, and another couple of crates of standard metal NATO magazines. P-mags would have been preferable, but the less reliable GI mags would have to do.

  Heinrich picked up one of the rifles and pulled back the charging handle. It came back smoothly and snapped back into place with a muted clack. He popped one of the takedown pins, opened the rifle up, and inspected the bolt carrier group. It looked brand new, had a stamp verifying it had been magnetic particle inspected and high-pressure tested, and was properly oiled. At the bottom of the crate Heinrich spied cleaning kits, solvent, and lubricating oil.

  Heinrich put the rifle back in the crate and closed it up. There would be plenty of time to take inventory and issue weapons later. For the moment, he had loose ends to wrap up.

  At his wagon, which he half-jokingly thought of as his command center, he opened a box and began taking out radio equipment. There was an antenna, an amplified radio frequency transmitter/receiver, a power inverter, and a charged deep-cycle battery. The battery weighed over a hundred pounds, so Heinrich left it where it was and connected a set of alligator clamps from the battery leads to an AC plug adapter. The AC plug connecting to the battery went into the inverter on the input side, while the power cable for the transmitter went into the inverter’s output side. Heinrich put on the radio’s headphones, picked up the handset, and double checked to make sure everything was connected properly. Once he started transmitting, the inverter would pull a significant amount of wattage from the battery. Not only did the battery have to power the radio, it had to power the inverter as well. And since the battery only had so many amp-hours before it had to be recharged, he wanted to keep things as brief as possible.