“I don’t like it,” Hunter whispered. He kept his eye moving like an automated turret.
“No infected,” Kinnick breathed. The wind picked up and a mini sand cloud spiraled over the street and was blown away. The street was in bad need of a repair and sweep.
Hunter spit chew onto the ground. “We need to keep moving.”
A voice boomed out down the street between the structures. “Come no closer.” Guns pressed hard against shoulders. A few of the Marines took a knee to make themselves smaller targets. Others stood, training their guns on the different buildings, fearing an ambush.
A man stood on the wooden balcony of the restaurant. He wore a tucked in plaid shirt and a cowboy necktie with faded blue jeans. His hair was gray but encroaching on white. He leaned on the balcony handrail as if he were a king overlooking his domain. “Tell your men to lower their weapons. We don’t want no trouble.” His voice was strong and had an honest tone to it.
People appeared from the shadows of buildings and from windows. They were all armed with every manner of firearm. They held wood-stocked AK-47s, pump-action shotguns, AR-15s with optics, and scoped bolt-action hunting rifles.
“We got tangos on the left,” said Duncan, his M249 SAW finding a target but staying silent.
“Same right,” said Boone.
Hunter transitioned from window to window. Hawkins’s gun was trained on the man on the balcony. Kinnick raised a hand. If we walk out alive, there won’t be many of us left. Only the dead and the recently dead, and who will stand up to the infected when they come streaming across the bridge and into America’s heartland? No one, because we killed each other in the streets over nothing.
Kinnick’s gaze jumped from man to man to woman of the village. Almost all were white and wore every manner of clothes. Jeans, camouflage, hoodies, and tan work jackets. Most were dirty with untrusting eyes. “Lower your weapons,” he commanded his men.
“Sir?” Volk said over the stock of his M4 carbine.
“Lower your weapons,” Kinnick said louder.
The Marines bitterly obeyed and Kinnick thought they hesitated a bit too much.
Kinnick took a step forward and spoke loudly. “We didn’t come here to fight.” His words were for the man on the balcony, but they also served as a reminder to his men. Remember that. These are Americans. We’re here to protect them.
The man on the balcony nodded. “That’s good. We’ve seen a bit too much violence these days.” The old man walked down the wooden balcony stairs. They complained as he stepped his way down. He strode the ground with friendly confidence up to Kinnick.
“Gary Sheldon.” He stuck out a hand. The wind whipped his graying comb-over. A kind smile spread along his lips.
“Colonel Kinnick, United States Air Force.” He would have said retired, but his paperwork said active now. He shook hands with the older man.
“To what do we owe the pleasure, Colonel?”
“Are you the mayor here?”
Gary smiled. “Nope, but I suppose I’m in charge all the same. Owner of Sheldon’s Lucky Number Seven.” He gave a proud glance back at the two-story restaurant. “Best meatballs this side of the Mississippi. One might say world-famous.” He gave Kinnick a wink and a smile, but his smile faded after looking at Kinnick’s face for a moment. He gulped uncomfortably. “What is the United States military doing here, Colonel?”
Kinnick nodded. “Can we talk inside?”
“Of course.” Gary turned back to the people standing in front of their houses and taking cover in windows. “Everything is fine here.” He waved at the people. “No need to worry. The military is here to help. Go on home.”
Kinnick and his men followed Gary across the street.
Gary held open a storm door and twisted the door handle to his restaurant.
“Volk. Put Gore and Whitehead up on the balcony. No surprises.”
“Yes, sir.” Volk pointed at Gore and Whitehead and gestured upward. The two Marines trotted off. Their boots thumped up the wooden steps.
“Come on in, fellas. Take a load off.” Gary held the white storm door open for the soldiers and Marines.
The restaurant was filled with four-person white-topped dining room tables. Black chairs sat around each one. A long counter ran along the far end and one could see into the back kitchen that lay dormant. The dining room was dark.
“Forgive me, Colonel, but we don’t have anything but candles.”
“Not a problem, Gary.”
The old man bent down and lit a few. An older gray-haired woman came down the steps from what appeared to be living quarters above the restaurant and into the dining room. She looked nervous and rubbed a blue handkerchief between her hands in apprehension.
“Martha, this is Colonel Kinnick and his men. Can you put on a pot of coffee for them?”
She nodded. “Of course, dear.” With a timid glance at Kinnick, she went into the kitchen.
Gary turned and smiled at Kinnick. His teeth were stained yellow from a lifetime of drinking coffee or chewing tobacco or both. “Power’s off. I got propane rigged up to the stoves, but I don’t suspect it will last the winter. Then, I’m not sure what we’ll do.”
Gary pulled out a chair and sat down. “Please,” he said, offering a seat to Kinnick with his free hand. Kinnick followed suit, pulling a chair out and taking a seat. Hunter took a seat at the table next to Kinnick and Gary.
The Marines clustered at a few tables, removing helmets and gear that made it uncomfortable to sit down.
Gary folded his hands out in front of him, resting them on the table. “Colonel, what’s been happening out there? We haven’t heard a thing in over a month. TVs don’t work. We get a bit of radio chatter, but it seems that nobody knows a thing and not knowing makes people’s imaginations grow wild.”
Kinnick met his eyes. “I’m glad to see everyone here safe, but I can’t say much of my news is good.” He paused. “But I hope to change that.”
“It’s a blessing to see you and your men, but I expected more men.”
Kinnick tightened his lips. “Unfortunately, these are all the men we have. Over time, we should be reinforced.” Will they? I must keep their hope alive. If hope dies, then we die with it.
Gary’s eyebrows bunched together in consternation. “That’s good to hear. Those things come from across the river. Terrifies the little ones, and I’ll admit, it scares me too.”
Kinnick took a deep breath. “Scares me too, Gary.” If you only had an idea of the hell that was coming. He didn’t say what he thought though for fear of destroying any fragile hope the man might have. “We’re here to do more than help. My men and I are going to train you how to fight against these things.”
Gary gave a half-smile. “What do you mean train?”
“We’ve been sent by the United States government based in Colorado Springs to assist in training civilians along the Mississippi River to fight the infected.”
Gary’s eyes narrowed and his brow scrunched. “Government in Colorado Springs? What about the government in D.C.?”
Martha set down cups of coffee in front of Kinnick and Hunter. Kinnick nodded his thanks.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Hunter said, picking up the brew and sipping it. “Damn,” he said under his breath as he burnt his tongue.
Kinnick blew on his before taking a sip of the hot coffee, letting it warm him up.
“I hate to be the harbinger of bad news, but Washington is gone. It was overrun by the infected in the early days.” Kinnick watched Gary for signs of mental fatigue at the news.
Gary looked down at his hands. His eyes held sadness. “Worse than we thought. With all the violence and unrest, I suppose it was bound to be true.” He sipped his coffee, his thoughts running away with him.
“All is not lost, Gary. The United States government is secure in Colorado Springs. It’s a stronghold. We’re still in the fight. Although there are a lot less of us now.” Kinnick had left out the part about the nuclear holo
caust engulfing the west coast.
Gary’s eyes blinked as he came back from his daydream, and he glanced down at his coffee. “Warden’s done fine without any government help so far.”
“That will change. Masses of infected march this way, and that’s why I’m here. I’ve been sent with hundreds of soldiers and Marines to help train communities just like Warden to fight against the dead.”
“We would be grateful for the help, but I don’t think we’re really those kind of people. We’re a beach community. We’ve got a few vets. Mostly they sit down at the Legion, tellin’ stories.”
Hunter chimed in with a smile. “Anyone can be taught. Training is my wheelhouse. I’ve trained goat herders in Afghanistan how to operate and ambush hardened Taliban fighters. If that can be done, and I assure you it is no easy feat, then I can teach your people here how to fight.”
“We aren’t soldiers.”
Hunter smiled through his beard. “We aren’t going to make you soldiers. We’re going to make you fighters. We’re going to instruct you in speed, surprise, and aggression at the highest level.”
Gary nodded and looked a bit nervous. “We’ll do our best.” He savored his coffee. “Most people should come out.”
“I’m sure they all can be brought in with some encouragement.”
Gary looked down at his hands. “We can hope.” They sat in silence for a moment.
A gunshot sounded from outside. It’s boom repeating as the sound spread out like an earthquake. Hunter’s chair banged onto the floor and he was out of his seat in a fraction of a second. Volk flipped a table, and Boone and Hanger hit the floor.
Kinnick was slow to reach for his gun, but his fumbling hands wrapped around the carbine and he moved it in slow motion to his shoulder. The Marines scanned out the window, trying to get an angle on the shooter while staying near cover and concealment.
“Where’s it coming from?” shouted Ramos. The small Hispanic Marine crouched behind the wall, peering out the side of the window with his M249 SAW pointed out.
“I got movement by the water tower,” Hunter said.
Then the screaming started. “Ahhh!” Someone wailed outside. Whitehead’s voice intensified with urgency. “Help. Help.”
Kinnick moved to the wide-stretch of window spanning the restaurant’s front wall. Hunter crouched lining up his sights through the window. “Fuck. I can’t see him.” He turned his head. “Boone and Ramos, you and me, on three lay down cover fire toward that building by the water tower. Hawk, get up those stairs to that balcony and get that boy down here faster than green grass through a goose.”
Hawk nodded, crouching near the door. Hunter gave him a smirk and shouted. “Move!” He shoved the door open and bolted outside followed by Boone and Ramos. The crack and ting of carbines and the bang of Hunter’s SCAR dominated their ears. Hawk was through the door and up the stairs in a second.
Gunfire rippled through the street and Hawk came barreling down the stairs with Gore across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Whitehead aimed his gun outward toward the small town. Hawk and Whitehead ran through the door. He laid the man on two dining room tables and began stripping his gear from his torso.
“Hunter, you’re clear,” Kinnick shouted.
The Marines and Hunter ducked back through the door. The Marines cautiously built barriers out of tables and chairs, covering the windows.
Hawk slipped scissors up Gore’s shirt, cutting it off.
“Argh,” Gore grunted in response. He coughed and cried, one after the other. “Please.”
“Hold there,” Hawk said calmly to Ramos.
“Oh, what the fuck, man,” Ramos cursed. The white gauze turned red around the edges as blood seeped through.
Kinnick stood up and moved to where Whitehead stood panting.
“What happened?”
Whitehead shook his head tersely, still struggling to catch his breath. “I dunno. We was standing there smoking a cig, a second later, Gore is laying on the ground screamin’.” Kinnick pushed past him.
Kinnick pointed his gun at Gary. “Who did this?”
The blood drained from Gary’s face and he paled a lighter shade of white. “Please.” Martha covered her face with her hands.
Kinnick took a step closer and pointed outside. “Gary, who did this?”
Gary glimpsed outside nervously. “I don’t know.”
STEELE
Burr Oak, MI
The small southern Michigan village was about ten miles from the Indiana border. The village had been completely overrun. Shattered windows. Broken-in doors, hinges bent and destroyed. The remains of over eight hundred souls were scattered about or outright missing. Gunshots cracked the air for twenty minutes as Steele’s convoy made quick work of any infected stragglers that remained. The time between shots slowly trickled down to a few then none.
Tess parked Red Rhonda next to an old general store filled with antiques and other miscellaneous items. The sign read Bonnie’s. Ahmed emerged from the front door with Larry and Nathan.
“It’s clear,” Ahmed said.
“Thanks, bud.” Steele popped the door handle and gingerly stepped out onto the ground.
“Stinks like shit on the main floor, but upstairs is okay.” Ahmed had found a way to cut his fuzzy-haired head since Pentwater but had left his impressive jet-black beard making him look like a foreign relation to Steele.
Steele took a few steps. His limp was getting better, but he still felt the pellets grinding away inside the tissue of his leg. The swarthy Egyptian-American man gave him a pained smile.
“Need some help?”
Steele gave him a brusque wave. “No. I got it.”
Ahmed nodded his head and walked back toward the pickup bed. “I’ll grab your gear.”
Steele walked inside the two-story building. He ducked his head into the crux of his elbow as he stepped over the infected remains of the dead. On the far back wall, steps led upward. He hobbled for the stairs.
When he reached the upper floor, family photos surrounded him. The store owners must have lived above their store. Three small rooms and a common area with a kitchen were furnished in high 60’s decor.
Steele made a beeline for a mangy-looking brown couch and set his M4 to one side. He used the armrest to lower himself down and exhaled. His bad arm ached, stiff with lack of movement. It begged to be stretched and flexed, his muscles needing both healing and exercise.
Ahmed’s form emerged from the stairwell lugging two backpacks and he tossed Steele’s bag nearby.
“I’ll get my team up on one of those silos.”
Steele looked at his friend. “Better yet. How about you get one of the pastor’s teams up there? You and Margie can go check out that market for food.”
“Not a problem.” Ahmed turned to leave.
“Thank you,” Steele said after him.
Steele propped his leg up and leaned back on the couch. The couch had sunken in butt-filled divots from years of use yet seemed to cushion him enough to be comfortable. Not bad. Within moments, he found himself in an exhausted sleep. He was blessed with no dreams of the pastor or the ghosts of the fallen. He awoke to knocking.
“He’s sleeping. Come back later,” Tess said.
When did she get here? He pushed himself forward on the couch and wiped the drool from his beard.
“The pastor wants to talk to him now,” the voice said. The voice’s tone was highly irritated.
“Then the answer is definitely no.”
“He will take this as an insult,” the voice said angrily.
If Jackson didn’t string him up for a traitor, the incessant bickering of his divided people would certainly kill him.
Steele was actually surprised at how long Tess had debated the man. He lifted his voice up. “Tess, let the pastor in. I’ll talk to him.”
Tess glanced back at him and then at the interrupter in the hall. “You woke him up,” she said with enough venom to kill a grown man.
&n
bsp; “It’s fine,” Steele said, running a hand through his hair. “Let him in.”
Curly haired and broad Peter entered the room followed by the tall pastor.
Steele flexed his hand on his injured arm. Peter planted himself in the room and averted his eyes to the side. The man was still afraid of Steele even in his current battered state. The pastor glided in with his hands behind him and took a seat on a faded maroon recliner, looking uncomfortable at the thought of kicking back and relaxing.
He stared at Steele for a moment before he spoke. “Mr. Steele, we must speak about our current disposition.”
Steele gave him a fake smile.
“What is that, Pastor?”
“Like the Jews fleeing the Pharaoh, we must continue to make our escape or be caught in the Red Sea with our harassers.” The pastor folded his hands in front of him. “I will speak frankly. The jeopardy of a few far outweighs the jeopardy of the whole. Our safety is assured when we move.”
Just like Sable Point.
Steele’s voice was steady. “I promised those men we would wait two days.”
“The collective is far more important than the single man. Their sacrifice was for the better of all of us.”
And drastically unbalancing the numbers between the Chosen and everyone else.
Steele kept his eyes hard. “If these men know I will leave them for the infected at the drop of hat, why will they stick their neck out for me? Why would they fight with us?”
“Those men fight for a better chance at survival. They knew the risks when they rode south against my men. They knew the risks when they rode north away from Jackson’s men. If Jackson catches us here, he could envelop us like the Philistines did the Israelites at the Battle of Eben-Ezer, where the Israelites lost the Ark of the Covenant.”
“I understand that, Pastor. I’m willing to risk that.” He’s right. We should continue to run. Every minute we wait, Jackson gets closer.
The pastor lifted his chin and let it fall slowly as if he were considering not agreeing. “I will pray for our salvation.” The pastor stood, lengthening his tall frame. He towered over the crippled, sitting Steele.
The Departing (The End Time Saga Book 4) Page 14