Surviving the Dead (Book 4): Fire In Winter

by James Cook

  I raised the pistol and sighted in. The walkers were less than twenty feet away, but the strong wind forced me to aim a little to the right. The one in the lead was nearly as tall as me and skinny as a willow branch. Its skin, where it hadn’t been stripped away by the elements, was a mottled gray, stained black with old crusted blood. A flaccid remnant of shredded genitalia dangling between its emaciated legs was the only recognizable indication of gender. It had been a man, once, but now it was just another monster. I squeezed the trigger, and it walked no more.

  I tried hard not to notice any details about the next three I shot. With a memory like mine, you don’t want to focus too closely on things like that. Those kinds of memories stay with you and rear their ugly heads at the strangest times. By distracting myself with the mechanics of aiming and firing, I could almost ignore the pitiful, shambling figures blurring beyond my pistol’s front sight.

  With two left, I lowered the gun. No sense wasting ammo on so few. A quick glance around showed there were more walkers nearby, but none within striking distance. At least none that I could see. Ahead of me, beyond the whirling barrier of wind-driven ice, I wasn’t so certain. I adjusted my grip on my sword, assumed a relaxed stance, and waited.

  My falcata is an unusual weapon. The version I carry is a twenty-first century blacksmith’s interpretation of a sword that dates back to the Celts of the early Iron Age. Iberian mercenaries used it to devastating effect back in the Second Punic War and the conquest of Hispania. Roman soldiers reported encountering howling warriors swinging leaf-shaped blades so sharp they could cleave a man’s helmet and shield in a single blow. They legions familiar with it were so impressed they eventually adopted it into their own infantry, the ancient world equivalent of a sidearm.

  Mine is much larger than the swords used by those fierce little guys, and heavier as well; just over three pounds out of the sheath. It has a sharp, forward-curved blade that narrows in the middle and widens out at the top—kind of like a Kukri—giving it the impact force of an axe while maintaining the cutting edge of a sword. The tip is sharp enough to stab with, but a falcata is designed primarily for cutting and chopping. At these tasks, it excels.

  Against the infected, it is ideal.

  The last two came into range at the same time. You have to be careful fighting them this close; the infected are slow, but can lunge quickly across very short distances. And if they get their hands on you, your chances of survival drop dramatically. Fortunately, there is a simple solution to this problem.

  Cut their filthy arms off.

  My first attack was two looping slashes in a figure-eight pattern that sent the arms of the closest walker thumping wetly to the ground. I backed off a step and repeated the procedure for the second one. Neither seemed to notice.

  For the next part, I did much the same thing Cole had done back in the strip club. A quick downward slash at a forty-five degree angle to the crown of the head, wrench the sword free, watch the reddish-black brain matter spill out of the gaping hole, and then apply the boot. As the first one toppled backward ass-over-head, the last ghoul lunged for me, mouth gaping, a guttural hiss in its throat, stumps wobbling in comical impotence. I shoved it back with a firm hand to the chest and let the sword whistle through the air. Again the gore. Then the boot.

  I flicked the blade to the side and passed it through the snow a couple of times to clean off the accumulated brain tissue. There was no sense in sheathing it, however. No telling when I would need it again.

  I stepped over the fallen corpses and moved on.

  *****

  One mile, eighteen dead ghouls, and fifteen minutes later, I found what I was looking for.

  There was a steep incline leading away from the road that seemed a little too symmetrical to be a natural formation. At a distance, its upper half was indistinguishable from the gauze of snowfall and gunmetal clouds overhead. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a berm built up the side of a highway overpass. The snow covering its slope was nearly to my thighs, but I managed to struggle my way to the top.

  The bridge was still intact under almost three feet of white stuff. Visibility was much better at that elevation, allowing me to see a few hundred meters in all directions. I expected to spot at least a few infected nearby, but there were none. The wind must have covered the sound of my passing enough so they couldn’t track me. Looking away from the highway, a broad blanket of field stretched off toward a cluster of abandoned houses. On the eastern side of them, bordering the highway that ran across the bridge, the field sloped downward toward a flat, asymmetrical depression with a thinner layer of snow cover than the surrounding terrain. By the flatness and the shape, there was only one thing it could be. I smiled, drew the Mosquito, and fired a shot in the air.

  Ten minutes passed with no sign of the horde. I raised the gun and fired again. More waiting. By my watch, another ten minutes went by. My hands were going numb, and I had to stomp my feet on the hard-packed ice to maintain feeling in my legs. I kept reminding myself to be patient and remember the cold slowed the ghouls to a crawl, and there was nothing to be gained by acting in haste. I paced the length of the bridge in the middle where the snow was thinnest, kicking my feet in front of me to clear a path. After two passes, I had worn a knee-high furrow through the saddle-shaped drift. After ten passes, I began to warm up a little and increased my pace to a slow jog. At fifty passes, I slowed down to avoid breaking a sweat—the absolute last thing you want to do in sub-freezing conditions.

  And then I saw them.

  They were packed tightly together, converged into a single mass snaking along the highway and the surrounding fields. Where there were patches of trees, they stumbled through them, bouncing from trunk to trunk. Milky white eyes peered hungrily through the wind, noses in the air, desperately trying to catch the faintest trace of prey. In the low pewter-colored light, their unblinking eyes seemed to shine with preternatural luminescence. I fired again and watched their heads swivel in my direction. The ghouls along the leading edge saw me first, sent up a keening wail, and began stumbling toward the bridge.

  The screeching sounds of undead multiplied, amplified, and followed me down the hill. I stumbled through the freezing powder and wished like hell I had brought along a pair of snowshoes. Not a mistake I intended to repeat.

  I took my time working my way toward the depression in the field. The ghouls couldn’t see any better than I could, as visibility was still extremely poor. Every fifty yards or so I turned, shouted a few obscenities at my adoring audience, and then proceeded ahead, making sure not to gain too much of a lead.

  Finally, I reached my destination and looked around, gauging the distances involved. The easiest course of action would be to circle around the periphery of the depression and wait at the other side, but the proximity of the ghouls was not going to allow that. They would catch up to me and divert their course, which would defeat the purpose of coming down here to begin with. The only way for my trap to succeed was to go straight across, and quickly.

  I stepped forward and put a tentative foot onto the ice. It creaked a little, but held firm. Just to be on the safe side, I laid flat and shimmied across on my stomach, arms and legs wide to distribute my weight as much as possible. As I crawled, numbing cold filtered through my heavy winter clothes enough to make me shiver. Creaks, cracks and groans announced my passing, giving me nightmare visions of plunging through jagged ice into freezing water. I shook my head to clear it, controlled my breathing, and kept moving. When I reached the other side and stood up, a buzzing tension released from my shoulders and jaw muscles.

  Now for the fun part.

  I had timed my crossing perfectly. The ghouls arrived at the other side of the level expanse within moments. The first of them stepped heedlessly out onto the ice, oblivious to the danger beneath their feet. I edged back a few steps, hands on my weapons, ready to flee in an instant if my plan failed.

  The undead drew closer, more and more of them stepping away from
the frozen shore. Their moans increased in intensity. Grasping hands rose into the air, as if they could reach me from where they stood. The snap of teeth clacking on empty air built to a maddening crescendo.

  “Come on, come on,” I whispered. “Just a little further.”

  On they came, more and more of them, the ice popping and wheezing in protest. I backed a little further up the low rise toward the highway to get a better view. About twenty yards up, I spotted something jutting skyward like a raised bump on the smooth skin of snow cover. I ran over and brushed off the top layer to reveal a square green utility box. A sticker next to the handle warned me high-voltage equipment lurked within ready to electrocute any hapless soul stupid enough to pry it open. I brushed off more snow, cracked off the ice with the hilt of my sword, and climbed up.

  At best estimate, there were over two hundred ghouls headed my way. They had all begun crossing the ice except for a dozen or so stragglers bringing up the rear. The icy seal over the frozen pond continued its creaking and groaning, but did not break. The lead ghouls were nearly three quarters of the way across and growing more agitated with every step. As they approached, eyes locked unwaveringly at the tall, meaty meal across from them, the ghouls on the outer edges began to swing inward, converging on their intended prey. The horde slowly assumed a teardrop shape, the point stabbing inexorably in my direction. They packed in tighter and tighter until they were shoulder to shoulder, bouncing and jostling against one another. The ice screamed louder and louder until, much to my relief, a huge section in the middle gave way with an agonizing CRACK. In an instant, nearly a hundred ghouls disappeared beneath the surface, swallowed by cold black water.

  If I had been listening from a distance instead of watching, I would have thought I was hearing a gun battle. The cracking of ice increased in frequency until it became an ear-splitting, staccato cacophony. Ghouls vanished left and right, their expressions remaining unchanged even as they plunged beneath the merciless ice.

  Finally, the cracking stopped. Only a few ghouls remained, most of them crowded around the opposite shore of the large pond, wasted faces registering primitive confusion. A moment ago, the ground in front of them had been solid. Now, they stood knee deep, thigh deep, and in some cases, chest deep in freezing water. I walked calmly around the shore until I was within twenty yards, raised my pistol, and went to work. I burned through the remaining rounds in my current magazine before switching to my falcata.

  As I swung, making sure to keep my breathing steady and my balance firm, I regretted not bringing a hatchet with me. I could have destroyed the ghouls much faster and saved wear and tear on my sword. After the last corpse went down, its head flying one way and its torso the other, I cleaned the blade with a few handfuls of snow and examined the edge. There were a few small nicks in the finely-crafted steel. I ran my thumb over them with a grimace, and a promise to work the blade over a whetstone at my earliest opportunity. For now, it would have to wait.

  After cleaning my sword and drying it carefully, I turned my attention northward. With any luck, the road back to the strip club would be clear of undead. Time to find out what was holding up the cavalry.

  “Sierra Lead, Sierra One. How about a sitrep? Over.”

  “En route, Sierra One,” Hicks replied. “Sorry it’s taking so long, visibility is shit. I’m taking it easy, don’t wanna run this pig off the road. I know we got wounded, but we won’t be gettin’ nobody home if I get stuck in a ditch. Over.”

  “Acknowledged. I’m activating GPS. Get a fix and tell me how long until you reach my position. Over.”

  I made my way back to the bridge, activated my radio’s GPS, switched antennas, and waited. A glance at my watch told me it would be dark soon. I wondered how Fuller and Riordan were holding up.

  “Sierra One, we have your twenty. Looks like we’re about a half-mile south, heading straight for you. You must be close to the highway. Over.”

  “Standing on an overpass, actually. You should see me here in the next few minutes.”

  It was three minutes, in fact, before I heard the throaty rumble of the transport drawing near.

  SEVEN

  There wasn’t enough room in the passenger compartment.

  Three men from each squad rode on the transport’s roof, feet dangling over the side, rifles in hand. I was less than ten feet over them when the big vehicle slowed to a halt beneath the overpass.

  “Let me guess,” I called down to them. “Too many prisoners for everyone to fit.”

  Holland looked up and waved a hand. “Come on, jump down. We ain’t got all day.”

  I stepped over the rail, climbed down until I was dangling from the bridge by my fingertips, and dropped the last couple of feet to the roof.

  “I’m on board,” I said over the radio. “Let’s get moving.”

  Taking a seat just behind the cab, I settled in and tried not to shiver too badly as the transport bounced, squeaked, and clanked its way to the strip club. A few infected dotted the road here and there. Hicks ran down the ones that got in the way and ignored the rest. Five minutes from the bridge, the booby-tasseled vixen on the strip club’s sign came into view.

  “This is it,” I said, keying the mike. “Titty bar on your left. That’s where they’re holed up.”

  “Roger that. Looks like there’s a few infected wanderin’ around the entrance. Let the other guys on the roof up there know, will ya?”

  “Ten four.”

  I called out the appropriate warning, drew my .22, and eased toward the ladder on the passenger side. As the transport’s tires crunched to a halt, the two doors aft of the passenger carriage opened and spilled out eight gun-toting soldiers and militiamen. The six men on the roof and I climbed down while two others stayed behind to watch the prisoners. Hicks and Page stayed in the cab, as required by protocol. My protocol. I made it a point to always leave at least two men in reserve in the transport, foot on the gas pedal, in the event we had to beat a hasty retreat. It had saved our lives three times already.

  Once on the ground, I shouted for Holland and Sanchez to form up on either side of me, then directed Thompson to grab three bodies, get inside, and get to work on Fuller and Riordan. Cole heard the commotion and opened the front door, SAW in hand.

  “Over here,” he shouted.

  I had the other troops form teams to clear out the undead, melee weapons only. The last thing I needed was the crack of rifles drawing more walking corpses down on our heads.

  Moans drifted hollow and warbled through the shifting wind. Rather than risk losing people in the near-whiteout because they couldn’t see or hear each other, I had the men divide the small parking lot into sections, like cutting a pie. The club was at our backs, and each team was responsible for protecting their section. Zone defense, so to speak. Two troops with suppressor-equipped rifles took up position on our six to repel any undead approaching from the other side. I ordered them not to fire unless they had no choice—ammunition was growing scarce. Once in position, we set our feet, clutched our weapons, and waited.

  There were less than a hundred walkers, but they still outnumbered us by a wide margin. With our weapons and training, it was manageable, but I’m not stupid enough to think any fight is too small to be my last. I shouted to the other teams to make sure everyone was within earshot. They were.

  “Remember, fight as a unit. No cowboy heroics. If you get too many to handle, back off and use your rifles. Maintain muzzle discipline at all times. Anyone hits a friendly, I’ll fucking kill you myself. If you need help, ask for it. Everybody clear?”

  I got a round of acknowledgments. These men knew their business enough that my admonishment was redundant, but it made me feel better to say it. It also served the useful purpose of reminding them who was in charge. In the absence of strong leadership, discipline is the first thing to break down. When that happens, good men die. I wasn’t having that. Not after the way I had let Fuller and Riordan down.

  The infected slowly closed to
within fighting distance. I ordered the men to stay calm and hold back, one open palm in the air. I waited until I could count their bloody black teeth, and then dropped my hand.

  “Attack!”

  With a roar, the soldiers went to work. I added my voice to theirs as my falcata carved a bloody path, sending smashed brain tissue and decapitated heads crashing to the ground. On my left, Sanchez viciously pounded away with what he called his war hammer. It consisted of a three-pound sledgehammer head, which he had ground down at the ends so it resembled a small metal football, and then attached a twenty-four inch hickory handle. He swung it in a diagonal, looping percussion, like hammering railroad spikes. Except the spikes were undead skulls, and he was driving them into their own necks.

  On the other side, Holland was doing his usual frenetic kicking and cutting routine with a pair of tomahawks. His first victim caught a ‘hawk to the forehead, went stiff as a board, and slowly began tipping over sideways. Holland helped it along with a spinning hook kick, pried his weapon loose, backed off a few steps, and waited for the next few infected to trip over the body. When they did, he severed their brain stems with precise, well-practiced chops from the spiked end of his tomahawks.

  At some point during the fighting, when the infected had bunched up in front of us and I was about to give the order to fall back, I heard a thundering bellow and saw Cole ripping into the ghouls’ left flank with his bar mace. I called out for the men on that side to fall back and reinforce the opposite flank so Cole would have room to swing. The other troops, though winded and muscle weary from fighting, redoubled their efforts, their confidence buoyed by the human engine of destruction bashing a swath through the infected.