I reached down and began searching him for weapons. With two blown out shoulders and a badly wounded leg, he wasn’t in much of a position to do anything about it.
“Okay, Carson-Mitchell-Carson. You and I are going to have a chat. “
I found a knife and a small .380 pistol. I tossed them away and made a pile of his weapons, well out of arm’s reach. Slinging the rifle around my back, I knelt down by Carson’s legs and drew my hunting knife. I held it up where he could see it, twisting the flat of the blade to catch the light. His eyes locked to it like a magnet, as if it had its own gravitational pull. A singularity of dense, unrelenting force, drawing him further and further into panic.
“I have a pretty good bullshit detector, and let me tell you Carson-Mitchell-Carson, I don’t like being bullshitted. Am I clear?”
He nodded quickly, eyes still locked on the hunting knife.
“Good. That will save me time, and you a lot of pain. Just to let you know, if I don’t like what you have to say, we’re going to start with your Achilles’ tendon. Then we’ll work our way up from there. Savvy?”
The quick nod again. Still with the wide, fearful gaze.
“Good.” I smiled. “Let’s get started.”
*****
We spoke for a long time, the two of us.
He told me a great many things, some of them useful, some not. He was a low-level leader in the Legion, middle management really. But he knew things that Grayson Morrow didn’t, and he gave me a fairly good idea of where the Legion was getting its weapons. As the questions became more focused and direct, he began to grow reluctant with his answers. Stuttering. Long hesitations between sentences. It finally got to the point where I felt that he wasn’t being honest with me.
That was the part where I severed his Achilles’ tendon.
Left leg. It was a tough piece of tissue, and I had to saw at it a bit before it parted.
I had seen Steve do the same thing to a guy back in North Carolina, and it had worked remarkably well. I’d been pretty squeamish about it at the time, but the years since then had not been kind to me. I had seen too many people suffer horribly at the hands of those with no regard for human life, and I had lost all patience with would-be conquerors. This guy had thrown his lot in with the bad guys, the ones who murdered, and raped, and stole from others. The ones who had nearly killed me, and who had shot two of my closest friends. One of them just a little boy.
No. It didn’t bother me to do it. Carson-Mitchell-Carson had made his choice, and the consequences were his to suffer.
Things went smoothly after that. I didn’t glean enough information to change my mission, but I did learn enough to give me an edge. Finished with the interrogation, I stood up and thanked Carson-Mitchell-Carson for his cooperation.
And then I shot him in the head.
Chapter 17
Between Brave and Stupid
I reached the outskirts of the Legion encampment just after nightfall.
The bridge I was hiding under was part of a highway overpass situated atop a steep, man-made hill. Ahead, less than half a mile away, a sprawling warehouse squatted next to a stretch of empty four-lane blacktop. The featureless concrete structure looked like a white slab of dead flesh in the descending gloom. I was a few hundred feet above it and could see the entire complex from one end to the other.
From the outside, the place looked utterly abandoned. No sound, no stirring of voices, no flicker of campfires, no movement, nothing. The Legion had gone to great pains to make sure that the place looked unoccupied.
But I knew better.
The trek here, after leaving Carson-Mitchell-Carson lying in a puddle of his own blood, had been remarkably uneventful. I didn’t encounter a single infected, a testament to the Legion’s efficiency. It made me wonder, not for the first time, what vendetta the Legion held against the people of Hollow Rock. It wasn’t as if the town had anything that the Legion couldn’t provide for its own. These rogue militants had food, shelter, weapons, everything they needed. They had proven that they could protect themselves from the undead, and their fearsome reputation had kept other, smaller groups of marauders at bay.
Adding to the mystery was the question of how the Legion had evolved from a few loosely affiliated squads of raiders into an organized, well-supplied para-military force. Carson-Mitchell-Carson had conveniently given me one piece of that puzzle—the weapons.
The AK-47s were being transferred in via seven overland routes, all of them originating from different points along the Mississippi River. They came from all over, accompanied by troops from another, larger group that was aiding the Legion.
The Midwest Alliance. Had to be.
But that didn’t explain the Chinese manufacturing stamps, or the Korean shipping manifests, or the Russian ammo. I had a piece of the puzzle, but not all of it. To learn the rest, I would have walk down the hill, get across the highway, and allow the Legion to capture me.
I sat there for a while, staring and thinking about the difference between planning a thing, and actually going through with it. It’s all fun and games until you come face to face with the part of your mission that might get you killed.
“Well, I made it this far,” I muttered, standing up. “Might as well see it through.”
While checking my gear for the last time, I decided that there was no point in letting the Legion have all of it. After searching around for a while, I found an old culvert that ran beneath a raised stretch of road near the bottom of the hill. One side of the culvert had caved in, and thick debris clogged the other side, effectively preventing any water from flowing through it. I wrapped the M-4 and the CZ in a trash bag to keep them dry, along with the lock-pick, the multi-tool, and a bottle of water, and cached them in the culvert. The Sig, the hunting knife, and the Ruger I kept with me, as well as the ax and the crowbar. It would look strange if I showed up completely unarmed.
Finally, I cast a glance across the field at the warehouse, and set off toward it. My heart began to beat faster as I approached, and it took an effort of will to stay calm. I looked across the field, checking around and behind me just like any survivor would, but kept my movements casual, trying not to give away the apprehension that was building to a fever pitch.
I reached the road that ran alongside the structure and discovered the ditch beside the road was deeper than it had looked from up the hill. If I stood on the bottom, the edge of the pavement would be a little above my head. The ditch on the other side looked just as deep. I could climb it, but it would be a pain in the ass. Casting a glance around for a better place to cross, I saw a gravel road that intersected with the highway a quarter-mile to the north, near the edge of the surrounding woodlands.
Looks like a nice place to set up an ambush, I thought. Plenty of cover, deep depressions on both sides of the road. They could probably hide three or four people over there.
Holding the Ruger loosely in my hands, I headed toward it. As I got close, I saw movement in the tree line and heard metal scraping on dirt from down inside the ditch. If I were approaching with bad intentions, this would be a good time to open up on them. Take the initiative, and rock them back on their heels, maybe try to escape. If Gabe were here with me, we could leapfrog backwards, laying down covering fire as we went.
But Gabe wasn’t with me, and my purpose was not to escape. So I kept walking.
I made it almost to the rise in the side of the road where the gravel path met the pavement before they sprung the trap. As I had suspected, there were four of them, all armed with the familiar Chinese assault rifles. Two of them emerged from cover in the woods where I had already spotted them, and the other two climbed a set of steps carved into the ditch on the opposite side of the highway.
“Stop right there!” one of them shouted. “Drop the gun and get your hands up!”
For just the briefest of moments, I hesitated. It would have been easy to sprint to my right, spraying bullets as I went. I was certain I could hit two of them
on my way to the tree line before taking off through the woods. They would have a hard time getting a clean shot at me in the thick stands of pines and cedars. But then I reminded myself what I was doing this for, and remembered Grayson Morrow’s instructions:
Don’t try to fight them when they find you, just do as they tell you. If you try to fight, they won’t hesitate. They’ll kill you. Surrender quietly, and they’ll take you to the tunnels. It’s where they take everybody they capture.
Doing my best to look surprised, I let the Ruger fall to the ground, and raised my hands.
“Mike, get his weapons,” the one in charge said. He was standing to my right, one of the two who had emerged from the trees.
“What the hell?” I said, stepping back.
“Don’t you fucking move!” the leader shouted again. “Take one more step and you’re dead!”
I stopped, and stared around in what I hoped was an expression of stunned disbelief. They must have bought it, because they didn’t shoot.
The one identified as Mike strode forward. He was shorter than me, skinny, with a narrow, ratlike face. He grinned as he picked up the Ruger.
“Thanks,” he said, holding up the rifle. “I’ve been wanting one of these.”
“Mike, stop fucking around,” the leader said, and motioned at me with the barrel of his AK. “You, drop the pack and the web gear. Try anything stupid, and I’ll turn you into hamburger.”
My hands shook a little as I took off the pack, and unbuckled the load-bearing harness. Rat-face Mike stepped forward with a swagger in his step and whistled as he looked over my equipment.
“Ooohh, Sig Mosquito. These are popular. I’ll get a good price for it.” He pulled the gun from its holster and stuck it in his belt. “What else you got for me?”
He smiled up at me, brimming with confidence, and I almost laughed at him. The little rat-fuck had no idea how close he was to dying. A quick strike to the throat would distract him, followed by a thrust from my hunting knife to finish the job. A twist of the blade on the way out, and he would be standing in a pile of his own guts. It would take seconds to do it, quick and easy.
I’m going to catch you alone sometime, Rat-Face, I thought. We’ll see how cocky you are when I open you up and strangle you with your own intestines.
Stripped of my weapons and equipment, I stood still while Mike and one of the others searched me. It was not a gentle search, and I had to give them credit for being thorough. If there had been a weapon hidden on me, they would have found it.
“He’s clean, Tommy,” Rat-Face Mike said, stepping back and training his rifle on me. Tommy, the leader, stepped closer.
“What’s your name, shitbird?”
He was taller than I was, and heavyset, with broad shoulders and thick, ham-sized hands. A grizzled beard coated his face all the way down to the collar of his shirt, and he reeked of body odor and old booze.
“Logan,” I said, without hesitation. “Logan Morrison.”
I saw the backhanded blow coming, but rather than try to get out of its way, I simply rolled with it. My head snapped to the side, and stars exploded in my vision. I managed to keep my feet until another blow crashed into my gut, slamming all of the air out of my lungs. That one put me on my knees.
“Wrong answer,” he said. “Your name is maggot. And from here on out you are the property of the Free Legion.”
I suppose I should start begging now.
“Listen, please, just take—”
The next blow was a kick aimed at my head. The leader, Tommy, stepped into it and brought it forward from about three counties back. If I had been stupid enough to sit still for it, it might have snapped my neck. Thankfully, I’m not stupid. I let it clip the side of my head and threw myself backward to make it look as if the kick had leveled me. Even though I dodged the worst of it, the force of the blow was still enough to rattle me, and I didn’t have to fake the dazed expression on my face as a pair of hands lifted my roughly back to my knees.
“You will do as you are told.” He punctuated the sentence with a vicious backhand. My right eye began to swell immediately.
“You will eat when we feed you, which won’t be fucking much.” Another strike. Harder this time.
“You will speak when you are spoken to.” He reared back and slammed a fist into my face. I rolled with it as best I could, but it still hurt like a bastard. Warmth poured from my nose, and my next breath blew out a spray of blood from my upper lip.
“And if you even think about trying to escape, we’ll string you up by your balls and skin you alive before we kill you.” He finished with a final backhand.
It would have been easy to rear back and kick Tommy in the balls. I could have overhooked the arm of the raider to my left and dislocated his shoulder. After that, I could have thrown the one on my right at the rat-bastard covering me with a rifle. They were both smaller guys, and the impact would have knocked them over. I might have been able to grab a weapon, spray them all with lead, and escape.
Instead, I let myself go limp, head lolling down to my chest.
Satisfied that he had sufficiently beaten the shit out of me, Tommy stepped back and motioned to his men. “Zip this fucker up and take him to the pit. Looks like we all get booze and bitches when Lucian gets here.”
The two men holding me whooped and hollered as they planted me on my face and bound my hands behind my back with zip-ties. They pulled hard on the plastic restraints, tightening them until the hard edges bit deep into my skin. Once secured, they lifted me to my feet and began half-dragging me toward the back of the warehouse. On the way, I had to keep my head down to conceal a smile.
I survived, I thought. I’m still alive.
I raised my head enough to see the back entrance to the building, and the pitch-black interior beyond.
“Let’s go, sweetheart,” Rat-Face Mike said, and thrust me ahead of him.
I lost my footing, and fell forward into the darkness.
Part III
Under the sword lifted high, there is hell making you tremble.
-Miyamoto Musashi
The Book of Five Rings
Chapter 18
Gathering Dark
The first thing I noticed was that Grayson Morrow’s description of the warehouse’s layout was spot-on.
The second thing I noticed was the smell.
It was dark, earthy, and close, like a rag over my face. The smell of dirt, mold, and decaying leaves, all tied together by the fecal odor of decay. It reminded me of the mulch pile my father had kept in our back yard, only a thousand times more powerful.
Around me, the concrete floor stretched away into darkness except for a small, well-lit section near the far wall. There, someone had put up crude wooden partitions that reminded me of another warehouse I’d been in back in North Carolina. On that side were propane grills, candles, a few Coleman lanterns, couches, and boxes upon boxes of hard liquor. A few stooped figures hustled about sweeping the floor, tidying, and placing neatly folded clothes on beds. Only a small number of off-duty Legion troops occupied the area, all seated around tables and talking over plates of food.
On the far wall ahead of me, about two dozen rubber hospital mattresses lay on the ground, arranged neatly in rows. They had no sheets or pillows on them, only thin, rumpled blankets. Beside each palette, a heavy iron ring protruded from the concrete floor. Connected to each ring was a set of leg irons like the ones used by prisons. Most of the mattresses were empty, but on a few of them, figures sat huddled and shivering under their blankets. Chains extended from restraints on their ankles to the anchors driven into the floor. I was pretty sure they were all women.
Rat-Face Mike, and the asshole on my right, dragged me by my arms and dumped me on one of the thin green palettes. They clamped the leg irons to my ankles, and then, to my surprise, they cut the zip-ties on my wrists. My relief was short lived, however, as Rat-Face pulled a set of standard police handcuffs from his belt and clamped them over one wrist. His f
riend placed the barrel of his AK against my head.
“Give me your other hand,” Rat-Face ordered.
I did as he said and held out my arm. He cuffed my other wrist, and then stood up and took a few steps away. At least now my hands were in front of me.
“We need to lay out a few ground rules.” Rat-Face drew an expandable baton from behind his back and whipped it to the side, extending it to its full length.
“First: You don’t speak unless spoken to. I don’t want to hear any begging, or bribing, or bargaining, or any of that shit. Don’t wanna hear it. It’s annoying, and it won’t do you any good anyway. If I want something from you, I’ll take it, and there ain’t a fucking thing you can do about it.”
He pointed at me with the baton. “Second: You will do as you’re told. I don’t care what it is we tell you to do, you fucking do it. If someone tells you to lick his boots, you do it. If someone tells you to wash his clothes, you do it. If someone tells you to get down on your knees and suck his cock, you do it.”
To punctuate, he stomped his filthy hiking boot on the ground in front of me. “There, your first opportunity to learn. Lick it.”
This was the part I had been dreading.
In my long conversations with Grayson Morrow, he had told me about the methods by which the Legion recruited from the ranks of those they captured. Oddly enough, they weren’t looking for people who were weak and pliable. They didn’t want the meek, or the frightened, or the easily manipulated. They looked for people who were strong, tough, and defiant. They looked for the people who would rather swallow their blood than their pride.
These people they worked on, broke them down with beatings and hard labor. They kept at it until they had pushed them to the point of extreme mental and physical exhaustion, and then they started building them back up. But they didn’t do this with all of their captives, only the ones that had the fortitude and the strength of will to endure it. The people who had the raw, stubborn spirit that the Legion could warp, and twist, and defile into something despicable. What Rat-Face was doing right now, the whole boot-licking thing, was the first step in the process. Their first indication as to what I was made of.
Surviving the Dead 03: Warrior Within Page 22