Surviving the Dead 03: Warrior Within

by James N. Cook

  He laughed, and reached down to clap me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, son. You’re almost done paying your dues. Keep your nose clean, do your job, and we’ll have you out of the mines in no time.”

  He walked away, and the guards helped me to my feet. Gently this time. As they led me away, the guards’ words kept echoing in my head.

  Haven. My son. Marcy and the girls. Did these guys have families? What the hell was Haven?

  And what did it mean for the coming fight?

  *****

  Over the next few weeks, life was easier.

  Word spread among the troops that Lucian had authorized me to join the Legion. The guards no longer hit me at the slightest provocation, I didn’t have to wear chains anymore, and they fed me twice a day instead of just once. The portions were actually enough to live on.

  This did nothing to endear me to the other prisoners, especially the ones I had beaten. They divided their time between staring longingly at my food, and glaring daggers at me whenever the guards turned their backs. Whether it was because I had beaten them, or because they were jealous of my forthcoming ascension, I wasn’t sure. Probably, it was both.

  It bothered me that they hated me so much. If I could have shared my food, I would have. If I could have split my water ration with them, I would have done it. But I couldn’t. The guards were always there, and I had come too far to risk blowing my cover over something so small. But with every day that passed, my resolve to rescue these men became stronger.

  Work continued on the tunnels at a furious pace. Lucian was relentlessly pushing the engineer in charge of the project to get it finished. I saw the engineer a few times, dressed in clean clothes and wearing sturdy rubber boots, as he come down to inspect our work. From his chatter, I gathered that the connector loop was nearing completion.

  Early one morning, nearly five weeks after I had been captured, the two men working at the edge of the tunnel shouted for the guards. The one in charge walked over.

  “What is it?”

  “We broke through, sir.”

  “No shit …” The guard held up a lantern and stepped forward. A hole the size of a basketball emerged from the gloom, with dim yellow light glowing from the other side.

  A voice called out, “That you, Central?”

  The guard smiled. “Who the hell do you think it is?”

  “Goddamn, I’m glad to hear your voice. Come on, you fucking maggots. Finish this shit up.”

  The guard stepped back and motioned to the diggers. “Go on, get this wall down.”

  While the slaves worked, he ordered one of the other guards to go back and notify Lucian. He showed up a few hours later with the engineer in tow, offering smiles and handshakes to the troops who emerged from the other side.

  “Well, it’s about damn time,” he said jovially. “Now we can start staging supplies and equipment for the offensive. Fenton, how long do you think it’ll take to lay down the planks?”

  The engineer—a thin, balding man with thick glasses—tapped a finger on his chin as he thought about it. “If we get twenty more people from each site, I’d say about another week. Maybe less.”

  Lucian turned to the senior guard. “Go topside and find Kas. Tell him to get a crew together. We need twenty men. Ask for volunteers first, but if nobody wants to do it, then volun-tell the motherfuckers. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” He turned and left.

  As the leaders stood around talking for a little while longer, I sidled closer and listened, absorbing as much as I could. There were still more questions than answers, but I was starting to build a picture of just how big the Legion’s operations really were. When they had finished, Lucian stopped to speak to me on his way by.

  “Morrison, I think you’ve been down here long enough. It’s time to see about getting you on a crew. Follow me.”

  He strode down the corridor, and I followed.

  Finally, I thought. Time to set things in motion.

  *****

  Lucian turned me over to one of the men in his personal guard. “Take him through orientation,” he said with a wave. “Explain the facts of life, get him outfitted and, for fuck’s sake, get him cleaned up. He smells like shit.”

  He walked off to where his senior lieutenants had gathered around a large table, poring over a set of maps. The guard looked me over and wrinkled his nose. Hygiene didn’t seem to be much of a priority with most of the Legion troops, but even by their lax standards, I must have looked a mess. I hadn’t bathed in nearly six weeks, my beard had grown out, my hair was tangled and matted, and every square inch of me was covered in a crusty layer of dark brown dirt.

  “First thing we need to do is get you cleaned up and get you some new clothes. That shit you’re wearing looks like it’s about to fall apart. Come on.”

  He set off toward the far end of the warehouse, motioning for me to follow. We reached the same door that Rat-Face Mike had thrown me through more than a month ago, back when this nightmare first started. When he opened it, I had to swallow a few times at the lump in my throat.

  It’s hard to describe what it’s like to go for weeks on end without seeing the sun. Humans are diurnal animals, and access to sunlight is as important physically as it is psychologically. Without sunlight, our circadian rhythms are thrown off, our moods destabilize, and it becomes difficult to sleep. Combine that with sixteen hours a day of backbreaking labor, not enough food, and constant dehydration, and you have a recipe for insanity.

  When that door opened and I stepped out into the sunshine for the first time in five weeks, even though it stung my eyes like a firebrand, it was like being reborn. I stopped outside the door, smiled, and turned my face up to the sun, soaking it in.

  “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

  I held a hand over my face and looked at my escort, trying to blink away the glare. “What’s that?”

  He pointed upward. “The sun. I spent about two months down in the tunnels before I finally fought my way out. The first time I went outside, I cried like a fucking baby. The guys in my crew still give me shit about it."

  It took me a minute to force my eyes to focus, but finally they adjusted and I could see the man standing in front of me. He was a little shorter than me, late twenties, dark hair, long beard, strong Southern accent.

  “It was a couple of months before I stopped hating the tunnels,” he went on. “But now it doesn’t bother me anymore.”

  “You were a slave, too?”

  He nodded. “Yep. Just like you.” He pointed at the office building next door. “Let’s head over that way. Quartermaster is on the second floor.”

  We set off toward the building. On the way I said, “The last time I went over there, Aiken’s men took me through a tunnel.”

  “Yeah, he doesn’t like coming outside during the daytime. Not sure why.” He stepped closer and lowered his voice. “A word of friendly advice: Stay the fuck away from Aiken.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Guy’s a fucking psycho. He’s into torture and shit. Anytime somebody needs to be punished, he’s the one that does it. He also likes to buy women from slave traders and take them down into the tunnels. I’m not sure what he does with them, but sometimes, if you stand near the hatch, you can hear them screaming. He brings them back in fucking trash bags, man. I’m telling you, stay away from that guy.”

  “Thanks for the heads up.”

  “No problem. My name’s Paul, by the way. Paul Harris.”

  “Logan Morrison.” I shook his hand.

  “You from around here?”

  “No, I’m from down south. Texas.”

  My eyes had fully adjusted to the sunlight and as we crossed the parking lot to the admin building, I took a moment to look around. The place looked just as abandoned as the first time I had seen it, but now that I was on this side of the highway, I could see dugouts in the side of the road where lookouts were stationed. Anybody who passed by on the road would run right into their line of fire. Alo
ng the treeline, I saw evidence of other watch stations positioned well apart, but all within sight of each other. It wasn’t the strongest perimeter, but it didn’t have to be. Between the warehouse and the tunnels, the Legion troops stationed here had plenty of protection. I wondered how I could use that against them.

  “Listen man, there’s a few things you need to know,” Paul said. “Rules of the road.”

  “Okay.”

  “First, don’t go thinking that the leaders trust you. They’re not stupid; they know you’re probably pissed at them for all the shit they put you through. They’ll watch you close, and if they don’t think you’re serious about joining up, they’ll send you right back down to the mines. I’ve seen it happen plenty of times. Couple of guys even got themselves killed.”

  “Good to know. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Don’t try to run away. The last guy that did that was this kid named Morrow. He was a smart fucker; he almost made it, but one of our trackers caught up with him in a little town not far from here. They worked him over pretty bad, and then stuck him back in the mines for a month.”

  Morrow, you poor bastard. Everything you told me was true. “What happened to him after that?”

  “He straightened up and got on board with things. Fought his way out, and got assigned to a crew. Kid had bad luck, though. About two weeks later, he got killed in a firefight down near Hollow Rock, along with a bunch of other guys. Fuckers set a trap for us.”

  A trap? Is that what the leadership around here was selling? I guess they had to cover up getting their asses kicked somehow.

  It occurred to me that if this guy was one of Lucian’s personal guards, then he’d probably overheard a lot of information that I might find useful. We were still a good two hundred yards from the admin building, and setting a leisurely pace. I decided to go fishing.

  “What’s Hollow Rock?”

  “Little town southeast of here. You should see it, man. They got this big-ass wall that goes around the whole town. The place is surrounded by farms, and they got more food than they know what to do with.”

  “Why would they attack the Free Legion?”

  “ ’Cause they’re still operating under the old rules,” he said contemptuously. “They don’t want to trade with us because we allow slavery. The fuckers just don’t get it; the old ways are dead. It’s all about survival of the fittest now. But that’s all right, they’re gonna learn. They think because they got the Army on their side they’re protected from us.” He snorted, a grin creasing his face. “They don’t know shit. Lucian’s gonna make them pay for what they did.”

  “Is he going after them?”

  “Shit yeah. What do you think the tunnels are for?”

  My heartbeat went sluggish, and I remembered the sign at the main intersection in the tunnels. HR AXS. Hollow Rock Access. Lucian talking about an offensive.

  The pieces fit.

  We arrived at the office building and stepped inside. Just beyond the threshold, a pair of watchmen challenged us and Paul told them we were headed up to the quartermaster’s office.

  “Meet the newest member of the Legion.” He gestured to me.

  “Congratulations,” one of them said, offering me a handshake.

  “Thanks.”

  “Welcome aboard, man.” The other guard clapped me on the shoulder, smiling.

  Why the hell was everyone being so nice? These guys were supposed to be hardened criminals. What was with all the smiles and handshakes? It was making me nervous.

  Paul led me around the corner and up the stairs. When I walked out of a vestibule and through to the work area, I stopped and stared at what was in front of me. When Paul had said that the quartermaster’s office was on the second floor, I thought he had meant just a small part of it, an office or something. But that description hadn’t been accurate. The quartermaster’s office wasn’t just on the second floor, it was the second floor.

  Everything had been stripped out. The cubicles, file cabinets, desks, and computer equipment were nowhere to be found. In their place stood row after row of shelves all the way to the ceiling. A few men meandered through the stacks filling out inventory sheets and stacking boxes on pallet trucks. A desk had been built near the stairwell door, and seated behind it was a plump, surly looking man flanked by two armed guards.

  “Mr. Harris. What can I do for you?” Upon recognizing one of Lucian’s assistants, the man’s mood brightened immediately.

  “We got a new recruit.” Paul slapped me on the arm, sending out a plume of dust. “Need to get him cleaned up and outfitted.”

  “Sure, sure,” the man said, all smiles. “Come on back, young man. Let’s have a look at you.”

  He motioned me forward, and I stepped through a low, swinging door to his desk.

  “Christ’s sake, you must have just come from the mines. Well, let’s get you sorted out then. Tyrone, would you mind helping our young friend here get what he needs?”

  Tyrone, a tall black man with biceps the size of my head, grunted and led me to a bathroom at the far end of the building. Much like the main floor, the bathroom had been stripped out. The room’s only features were a mirror to my right, broken pipes jutting out from the walls, and a single pipe protruding from the ceiling that branched out into four shower heads. The opening the pipe came through was rough, as though cut by hand.

  “Holy shit,” I said. “You have a working shower.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Tyrone replied. “There’s a water tank up on the third floor. Helped build it myself. We cut holes in the ceiling and ran a couple of pipes down. It ain’t the Hilton, but it ain’t bad.”

  He stepped outside for a moment and came back with a bar of soap and a towel. “Here you go. I’ll go find you some clothes. What sizes you wear?”

  I told him, factoring in how much weight I had lost. He left, and shut the door behind him.

  Stripping out of my clothes, I tossed them into a pile in the corner, kicked my boots on top of them, and turned the valve to let the water run. It was cold, but not freezing. I spent a half-hour scrubbing myself down over and over again, trying to clean off all the dirt that had accumulated in every crack and crevice in my skin. My hair and beard were the worst parts, tangled and matted as they were.

  Once done, I looked at myself in the mirror. My ribs stood out in stark contrast under pale skin, and I could see the striations and bulging veins in my muscles. The hard work I had done in the mines had made me stronger, and even though I had lost weight, I was denser now. Compact. Stringy.

  A knock sounded from the door. “You done in there?”

  “Yeah.”

  The door opened. Tyrone thrust his arm inside, holding a small white trash bag. “Here’s your clothes.”

  I took it from him and he withdrew his arm, shutting the door. Inside the bag was a set of thermal underwear, an unopened packet of boxer briefs, a few plain T-shirts, socks, two pairs of sturdy Carhartt pants, two Army surplus bush jackets, and a thick Gore-Tex winter coat. Further down, I found a knit cap, gloves, belt, and a pair of Browning combat boots. Not bad. Not bad at all. I got dressed and stepped outside, carrying the bag. Tyrone was waiting for me.

  “You look a damn sight better. How you feelin’?”

  I managed a smile. “Much better now. Thanks.”

  “Come on with me.” He turned and walked back toward the front desk. When we arrived, Paul was there chatting with the pudgy man behind the counter.

  “Look at you, Morrison. You look like a human being again.”

  I forced a laugh. “I feel like one, too.”

  “Grab a backpack and a sleeping bag from that shelf over there. George has a few presents for you.”

  I went where he pointed and picked out a few items that looked adequate. Taking my new clothes out of the trash bag, I stowed them in a rucksack and went back over to the desk. Paul motioned to the man behind the counter, who produced a small cardboard box. “This is yours,” he said.

  I pulled it a
cross the table and picked through it. There was a Faraday flashlight—the kind you shake up to charge—a wind-up lantern, paracord, zip-ties, a mess kit, two emergency ponchos, a multi-tool, and a Swedish fire steel. I nodded in approval and stuffed them in my pack.

  “Thanks, man. This is good stuff. What about weapons?”

  The fat man chuckled. “Not while you’re still a prospect. You can have an ax or something to protect yourself from the infected, but no guns. Not till you’ve proven yourself.”

  He dismissed me with a wave. “Good luck, kid. You’re gonna need everything in that box before it’s over with.”

  “Let’s head downstairs and go through all the orientation stuff,” Paul said. “Then we’ll see about getting you assigned to a crew.”

  I nodded and followed him down the stairs. Back on the first floor, he led me to a corner on the opposite side of the building from Aiken’s office. The room was empty except for a folding table and a couple of office chairs. On the table were a few binders and a box of file folders. Paul rooted around in the files until he found one with my name on it and pulled it out. He motioned for me to sit down, and then took a seat at the table across from me.

  Over the next fifteen minutes, he laid out the rules of serving in the Free Legion. There weren’t many of them, but they required explanation. The first and most important rule was loyalty. Loyalty to the Legion, and loyalty to my crew. That meant following the orders of my crew leader, the senior staff—which they called the Carls—and the Warlord, Lucian. I asked if Warlord was Lucian’s actual title, and Paul confirmed that it was. I almost laughed, but seeing the serious expression on Paul’s face, I held it in.

  (Seriously, though. Warlord? Shouldn’t the guy be wearing assless chaps and a spiked codpiece, and drive around in a dune buggy or something?)

  My crew leader was responsible for my training, which would begin sometime in the next week or two. They had a strict curriculum, and everyone in my crew would help. The training would consist of basic marksmanship, land navigation, urban combat, patrolling, setting up perimeters, land warfare, traps, unit tactics, and an introduction to explosives. Gabriel had taught me all that stuff years ago, but Paul didn’t need to know that.