by James Cook
Through the press of bodies, a massive walker shoved two smaller ones out of the way and reached for me, bellowing like an angry bull. The bastard was nearly seven feet tall, with a great swaying lump of belly and flopping loops of pale intestine dangling where the skin had been eaten away. One of its arms flopped uselessly at its side, but the other made it past my blade and clamped onto my shoulder, fingers gouging painfully into the thickness of my deltoid. The pressure was immense, the concentrated power of human muscle unconstrained by pain or buildup of lactic acid. No involuntary signal from the brain to release when capillaries burst, or fingernails ripped out, or when bone crushed the flesh attached to it. Even in life, his grip would have had the strength of a steel vice. In death, it threatened to rip my arm open despite the protection afforded by the tough fabric of my clothes.
I roared in pain and brought my sword up in an underhanded slash. The razor-sharp blade split flesh and bone as easily as paper. The pressure released immediately. The creature lunged forward at the waist, mouth open, teeth bared, rotten breath threatening to make me gag. I leaned back to avoid it and watched its teeth clack together less than three inches in front of my face. Dropping my weight, I hopped back a step, corrected my stance, and brought my falcata down in an angled overhand chop. The spring steel sank into the ghoul’s cranium, cut downward across the eye socket and cheekbone, and exited clean through on the opposite side. An oblong section of skull, brain matter, and half of one eyeball slid free and fell to the ground. The ghoul swayed on its feet for a second, then hit its knees and fell forward on what was left of its face.
I kept swinging, moving from one target to the next, right shoulder sore from exertion, left shoulder burning from the big ghoul’s grip until, as often happens in combat, I found myself standing with blade in hand, breath ragged, goggles spotted black with blood, eyes casting about for danger, heart pounding in my ears, desperately searching for the next threat through the swirling blizzard wind. But there was no enemy in front of me. I looked around at the other troops who stood clustered together in similar states of exhausted confusion, weapons clutched, but nothing to swing them at.
In hand-to-hand combat with the undead, one falls into a sort of myopia, concerned only with dispatching the nearest foe in sufficient time to bludgeon the next one. When mired in that red-tinged miasma, the sudden absence of creatures trying to kill you comes as a shock. Then there is the dawning clarity of victory, the shouting, the whooping, the brotherly slapping of hands upon tired backs.
My troops were not immune to this endorphin rush of relief, the chemically enhanced knowledge they had fought, won, and would live to fight another day. Sanchez and Holland stepped closer to me, and although their scarves concealed their mouths, I could see the grins in their eyes.
“Nice work, gentlemen.” I said, and held out my sword as though reaching for a fist bump. Holland tapped it with one of his tomahawks, followed by a clank from Sanchez’s hammer.
“Pinche muertos didn’t know who they were fucking with,” Sanchez said.
I smiled back at him, then raised my voice and turned to the other men. “All right fellas, playtime is over. Sanchez, Cole, rally your men and set up a perimeter. It’s getting late; we need to get back to Hollow Rock before nightfall. You all know what to do. Let’s get it done.”
Cole and Sanchez acknowledged and started barking out orders. In a matter of minutes they would check their troops for injuries, have them clean and sanitize their weapons, and prepare to move out. While they worked, I went to check on Fuller and Riordan.
Inside the club, Thompson worked beside a propane lantern and had just put the finishing touches on a fresh bandage over Fuller’s injuries. His hands moved with the swift, deft assurance of someone who knows what he is doing. Thompson had been an EMT before the Outbreak, and while he didn’t have access to all the medical technology of his previous life, he had plenty of experience patching up wounded soldiers using whatever materials he had on hand. From the drooping of Fuller’s eyes, I guessed Thompson had administered a vial of rare, precious morphine. Riordan was still clear-eyed, but obviously in pain.
“How are they doing?” I asked.
“Riordan’s injuries aren’t severe. Tissue damage mostly, ripped up the muscle pretty bad. He’ll need stitches, antibiotics, and a couple months of rehab, but he’ll be all right. Sorry, buddy, but you’re sidelined until that leg heals up.” Thompson patted Eric on the shoulder, who twisted his mouth ruefully.
“Yeah, I gathered that.”
“Fuller, on the other hand, has at least two broken ribs. He’ll also need stitches and antibiotics, and he’ll probably be laid up in bed on pain meds for at least a few weeks. Doc Laroux might have a different opinion, but that’s my prognosis.”
I nodded, suspicions confirmed. “Think it’s safe to move them?”
“Considering today’s shenanigans, I don’t think it’s safe not to move them.”
“Agreed. I’ll go get you a stretcher, an IV, and some fluids. As for you, Eric, on your foot.”
“Har, har. Help me up you overgrown bastard.”
I grabbed his hand and hauled him up from the floor. He hopped on one leg, me supporting his good side, all the way to the transport. I helped him into the passenger seat in the cab, gave him a couple of bootlegged oxycontin I kept in my pack for emergencies, and told him to stay put.
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” he said, downing the pills.
Moving Fuller was a more delicate operation. Thompson and Cole secured him to a backboard, and the three of us, along with Sanchez, laid him down on the floor of the passenger car. Due to limited space, the number of soldiers riding on the roof went from six to ten. I pulled rank and informed them I would be driving, and to fight out the seating arrangements amongst themselves, but do it quickly. Fuller’s condition wasn’t getting any better.
With all the soldiers loaded in, I drove north along Reedy Creek Road until I reached the location where Hicks had left the trailer. After re-hitching it, I threaded a path through a few back roads to Highway 22 and turned south. From there it was a straight shot to the 77/364 bypass around Huntingdon—a town we had cleaned out a few weeks ago—and then Old State Highway 1 all the way to Hollow Rock.
It was slow going. The storm was in full swing and visibility was down to just over twenty yards, forcing me to creep along at ten miles an hour. I had to stop several times to scout ahead and make sure the road was clear. Lucky for me, even raiders and hijackers stay inside when the weather turns bad. Finally, with an hour left before nightfall, the western wall of Hollow Rock came into view. I breathed a sigh of relief and turned onto a dirt trail—well traveled even in the dead of winter—that swung around to the north gate. On the way, I keyed the radio.
“Watch commander, this is G&R Transport and Salvage, requesting entry. How copy? Over.”
Sarah Glover’s rich contralto crackled from the speaker, stirring old feelings best left unspoken. “Copy, Gabe. That blue-eyed Texas boy on your crew called in a little while ago, said you had a couple of guys wounded. Can you confirm that? Over.”
“Affirmative. Did Specialist Hicks inform you of their injuries? Over.”
“Sure did. Doc Laroux is prepping the O.R. right now. What about you, Gabe? Are you okay?”
There was a gentleness in her tone that tugged at something deep in my chest. Old feelings, faded, but still carrying warmth, the buried embers of an abandoned fire. She was a married woman when I fell for her, and smart enough to see what was happening to me. Sarah had kept her distance until I was cured of my infatuation, and when my eyes cleared, the flames died down, and my brain started firing on all cylinders again, she had been kind enough to offer forgiveness and friendship I didn’t deserve.
My track record with the fairer sex is spotty at best, consisting primarily of a litany of one night stands, brief romances of three months’ duration or shorter, and one marriage that lasted all of a year before my ex-wife decided enough was en
ough. The years since had been lonely ones, and in that isolation, I had grown unaccustomed to having women in my life, even as friends.
All that changed after arriving in Hollow Rock, especially as pertained to a certain tall, curvy, doe-eyed, smooth-skinned, lithe-muscled, passionate, intelligent, strong-willed brunette by the name of Elizabeth Stone. She of the soft lips, the sparkling laughter, and the urgent passions, who just happened to be the mayor of the fine township beyond the gates at which I awaited entry.
Then there was Allison, Eric’s woman and the town’s only doctor, who had decided I was worthy of allowing into her life, her home, and her confidence. Three good women, all anxious to curb my destructive appetites and nudge me along on the straight and narrow. It was a welcome change, if bittersweet.
“I’ll be all right once my men are looked after,” I replied. “You got somebody opening the gate? Over.”
“Nolan and Harper are working on it right now. Stand by.”
I stopped the transport in front of two massive concrete-and-steel doors and let the engine idle in neutral. Flurries of snow beat feebly at the windshield while the wipers fought to keep the streaks at bay. The exhaust stack sent up a thick plume of smoke that seemed vulgar next to the white landscape. Eric shifted in the seat beside me, head nodding lazily as he strained to stay awake. The painkillers had done a number on him.
“Wha’s taking s’long?” he slurred.
“Waiting for the guards to unbar the gate. Be just another minute.”
“’Kay.” This time, when he nodded, his head did not come back up. He slumped over against the door, arms limp, head tilted at an uncomfortable angle. A quick check of his pulse found it slow, but strong. I pushed him back against the seat, shifted his head so it rested against the window, and let him be.
There was a clang from the other side of the gate, a low grinding of pulleys turning, and then the doors swung slowly inward. I waited until they had parted wide enough to permit entry, and then put the transport in gear and rumbled through. As soon as the back edge of the trailer had an inch’s clearance, the guards began wheeling a pair of hand cranks in the opposite direction, pulling the heavy gate shut as quickly as they could. They had learned long ago not to take chances when it came to ghouls or marauders piggybacking through.
I couldn’t see them through the snowfall, but I knew there were two sentries on duty in opposing towers, both armed with high-powered rifles and LAW rockets, ready to rain down fire if things went pear-shaped. I had no intention of provoking them.
One of the ground-level sentries was Quentin Reid, the newest addition to the Hollow Rock Sheriff’s Department. He was an earnest and dedicated young man, but a bit green in the horns. He stepped up the ladder and shined his flashlight around the interior of the cab.
“Sheriff radioed down and said you got prisoners,” he said.
“Yep. Six of them, trussed up in the back under armed guard. You want to take custody?”
“Not right now. Ain’t enough deputies on hand to watch ‘em. Think some of your boys might help us out?”
“My men have been through the ringer, deputy. They’re exhausted.”
“It’d be just for a little while, maybe an hour or two until I can get some more bodies down here. I’ll talk to Lieutenant Cohen and see if he can spare a few people from the Ninth to keep watch overnight.”
“I’ll ask for volunteers, Quentin, but if they say no, I can’t make them. Their job is done as far as I’m concerned. Now can you speed this up? I have wounded.”
“Right. Just make sure you and your boys stop back by when you’re done. We still have to search y’all for bites. Rules are rules.”
“You have my word.”
He stepped down, did a quick inspection of the men in the back, and then waved us on.
First stop, the clinic. Allison and a rough-looking squad of nurses took Fuller and Riordan off my hands, the latter carried bodily by Thompson and Cole. I remained ensconced in the cab, wrapped in the warm comfort of my own cowardice, but still caught a hostile flash of amber-colored eyes as Allison glanced my way.
I was going to get an earful from her in the not too distant future, and so was Eric. At least the Blond Wonder would be unconscious or stoned silly for the worst of it. I had no such reprieve.
With the others back on board, I drove a couple of blocks down to the sheriff’s office. Sarah was waiting in the parking lot when I pulled in, bundled up in a thick sheepskin coat, knit cap pulled down to her ears, rosy cheeked, arms crossed over her stomach, shivering in the cold. I stepped down from the cab and walked into a tight hug. Her arms were thin and strong, not quite making it all the way around my torso.
“It’s good to see you back safe, Gabe.”
“Fuller and Riordan weren’t so lucky.”
She pulled back from me and looked up, concern written in her pale blue eyes. “How bad are they hurt?”
“Thompson thinks they’ll be okay, but they’ll be laid up for a while. Going to need lots of pain meds and antibiotics.”
Sarah grimaced. “Doc says we’re running low on that stuff.”
“We’re always low on medical supplies. Worst case, I’ll put in a call to General Jacobs.”
“He’ll want a favor if you do. He always does.”
“If it saves lives, it’s worth it.”
She stepped close to me again and placed a gentle hand on my arm. “Just make sure you don’t get roped into something you can’t get out of, Gabe. You know nothing would please Jacobs more than to slip a leash around your neck.”
“Believe me, I’m familiar with his stripe.”
The back of the transport opened and the soldiers began helping the six prisoners to the ground. They had cut the zip ties constraining their legs but left their hands bound behind their backs. Two soldiers escorted each of them, rifles jammed into their kidneys, narrowed eyes begging for an excuse to pull the trigger. The men of First Platoon had all seen combat against marauders and insurgents, and had no patience for their kind.
Sarah turned her head to look at them, the fine threads of muscle in her neck taut against her skin. A single lock of bright auburn hair dangled from her knit cap, just begging to be tucked behind the charming curve of earlobe. It was an effort of will to keep my hands in my pockets.
“I better get these guys booked,” she said. “What’s the charge?”
“Hell, pick one. Sedition, armed robbery, attempted theft of government property, conspiracy, you name it. We caught ‘em leading a horde this way. Damn near a thousand strong. There a law against that yet?”
“There is actually. President signed it a month ago.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. It’s called necro-crime. Covers a whole laundry list of charges. Sabotage, terrorism, destruction of property. Or in this case, conspiracy to commit murder. All capital felonies in Union territory, punishable by summary execution. Uncle Sam has no further interest in fucking around.”
“Jesus, I didn’t know that. Looks like these boys are in deep shit.”
“We all are, Gabe. And it gets deeper every day. Can you come by in the morning and fill out a statement?”
“Of course.”
“If the government doesn’t want them, they’ll be tried here in Hollow Rock. You’ll be called upon to testify.”
“That’s not a problem.”
She walked toward the entrance and held the door open while the soldiers and prisoners filed in. When they were through, she cast a final wave in my direction and followed, letting the door swing shut on its own.
I waited in the transport, engine idling, hands in front of the heater vent. Outside, the snow fell steadily, blown sideways by the wind. I watched it pour down and felt an old familiar anger begin to well up, directed at the person responsible for the mayhem that seemed to follow my every step.
If he would just settle down and stop trying to solve everyone else’s problems, he might actually have a chance to build a life. B
ut every time he turns a new page, he finds a new and improved way to splash blood all over it.
“What the fuck were you thinking, Gabe?”
Silence.
“What kind of Rambo bullshit was that? You damn near got two people killed, one of them your best friend.”
More silence.
“It’s not your job to fight the government’s battles anymore. Last I checked, you had an honorable discharge. Did you re-enlist when nobody was looking?”
The cab stayed willfully quiet but an answer came anyway, unbidden. Words spoken in anger years ago, the last thing my ex-wife ever said to me just before she slammed the door in my face.
You are what you are, Gabriel. And you always will be.
EIGHT
The blizzard was gone by morning.
A two-and-a-half foot thick blanket of snow covered Hollow Rock, piled nearly head-high along roads and sidewalks where a small army of volunteers, guards, militiamen, and soldiers had shoveled it aside. The sky was mostly clear except for broad bands of cirrostratus clouds clinging to the eastern horizon. A red, gold, and orange sunrise burned through the low stretches, while the streaks at higher altitude stood out stark and crisp against a cobalt sky. I paused on the porch to stare at them for a minute or two, struck by the simple, crystalline beauty of a cold winter morning. My good mood lasted as long as it took me to walk through the door of town hall.
Elizabeth stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in her office, arms crossed under the swell of her breasts, back turned to me, morning sun suffusing the edges of her frame. I called it the Worried Pose, one of her many mannerisms I had picked up on in the last few months. A few errant strands of hair not constrained by her ponytail stood out bright copper in the golden light.
“This is bad, Gabe,” she said. “The Alliance has never openly attacked Union territory. The Free Legion were puppets, a proxy act. This is direct action.”
“It was an attempt at direct action. And it wasn’t exactly an open gambit.”