by James Cook
He yawned, covering his mouth. “It certainly is. How’s the mayor?”
“Doing much better. Allison says she should be on her feet in a week.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Don’t know what this town would do without her.”
I smiled, gazing out over the snow-covered field beyond the battlements. “That seems to be the prevailing sentiment.”
We stood for a few moments, no words exchanged, watching the sun turn the eastern sky from pale gray to burnished yellow, an arc of red corona just beginning to blush to life beneath low-hanging clouds. Walter offered me a sip of his tea, but I turned him down and waited for the old man to work up his nerve.
“You’re going after them, aren’t you?” he asked finally.
“Him. Singular.”
He nodded, thoughts confirmed. “So you know who did it, then?”
“I do.”
“How certain are you?”
“As certain as a man can be of anything in these uncertain times. What’s your real question, Walt?”
One corner of his face curled up, about as close to a smile as the lawman ever got. “Not so much a question as a confirmation of suspicion.”
He waited, expecting me to feed him a line—an old cop tactic. I didn’t bite. Sensing I wasn’t going to volunteer anything, he pressed on. “One of the things you learn in thirty years of law enforcement is how to look for patterns. You see, human beings are creatures of habit and tend to behave along predictable lines. Take our conversation here, for instance. How exactly did I know you were going to show up on this particular section of wall?”
My eyes tracked involuntarily to a splintered post a few feet away, still stained with Liz’s blood. “Because you’re capable of elementary logic?”
He chuckled, raising his thermos. “That’s part of it. But mostly it’s because when you get to know somebody, when you spend a few months talking to them on a regular basis, break up few bar fights with them, haggle over the price of office supplies, you start to get an idea of what makes them tick. Patterns begin to emerge, little by little. And I think I’ve figured yours out.”
Again, the pregnant pause. Again, I remained silent.
“You know what I think?” he said, conceding. “I think there’s a hell of a lot more to you than you let on. You go around with your slow walk, and your Kentucky drawl, and your backwoods diction, and people think you’re just another good old boy. And you do nothing to dissuade them from that notion, do you? But you see, it’s all a little too careful, a little too manufactured. People are multi-faceted creatures, Gabe, and I can’t think of anyone who displays quite the consistency of personality you do. You’re never too mad, or too happy, or too anything because it might draw unwanted attention. It might lift the veil and let people catch a glimpse of the real man hiding under all that hill-country charm. Except the other day, when you came out of that clinic like the wrath of God himself, for a second there, I didn’t recognize you. There was your face, and your scars, and the same clothes you wear every day, but it was a whole different man under that disguise. He didn’t look slow, or lazy, or mild-mannered. He looked like he might kill me with a swipe of his paw and not break stride doing it. And now here you are again, not ten feet tall with lightning bolts coming out of your eyes, but just an ordinary mortal, same as me. I don’t feel like I should back away slowly and avoid sudden movement. Now why is that, do you suppose?”
I shifted my feet, wondering what all those people in the parking lot thought of me now. Was it as bad as that long-ago block party, and the months of strained greetings and forced, queasy manners that followed?
“I was pretty upset, Sheriff,” I said. “I’m sorry if I scared anyone.”
“Gabe, scared doesn’t quite cut it. Those people survived the end of the world, and you had them shitting their pants.”
“All I can do is apologize, Walt.”
He let out a hissing exhale, raising a cloud of vapor. “You see that town down there? Those people walking down the streets? It’s my job to protect those people, Gabe. They elected me to be their sheriff, and they trust me to look after them. But that’s hard to do when there are unknown quantities involved. When a man in my position sees the things I’ve seen from you, and hears the stories I’ve heard, it brings an unavoidable question to mind. Just exactly what kind of a monster do those people have living amongst them?”
I turned and faced the sheriff then, waiting for the inevitable flood of anger. I braced for it, ready to fight it down when it emerged. We stood there, the two of us, squared off, both wondering what was going to happen next.
But the anger didn’t come.
Confused, I broke eye contact and took a step back. My temper had always been my go-to, my ready response, the way I dealt with anything I didn’t want to sort through or talk about. It was always easier to make a fight of things and let it run its course, especially as I had a tendency to win those fights. But now, of all times, it refused to show itself. I leaned against the railing, feeling a yawning emptiness in my chest where the rage used to live.
“I’m not a monster, Sheriff. But you’re right, I am dangerous.”
I turned my head and saw him watching me, hand resting lightly on his revolver.
“I’m dangerous to insurgents who show up with bombs and a horde of ghouls.”
I pushed away from the rail, voice growing in strength.
“I’m dangerous to murderers who torture innocent farmers to death and hang them from trees.”
My feet moved of their own volition, stopping an arm’s length from the sheriff. My hands went to my hips and I stood firm, looking in the eye.
“I’m dangerous to the son of a bitch who shot the woman I love out of misdirected hatred and spite. And I when I find him, he will regret the day he was born.”
The sheriff’s expression shifted, like a ripple passing over still water. A whirl of emotions crossed his face, settling somewhere between wary and regretful. His hand eased away from his pistol and hung loosely at his side.
“But those people down there, Walt? I’m not dangerous to them. Or to you, for that matter. You want to know who I am? Fine. I’ll tell you. I was once an eight-year-old boy who lost his father to an accident. That little boy grew up into an angry young man with cunning, immense physical strength, and a mean streak a mile wide. He wanted so much to be like his old man that he joined the Marines. Somewhere along the way, it occurred to him that if the Corps could turn ordinary men into killing machines, what could it do for a motivated, dedicated, hard core motherfucker like himself? So he set out on a mission to find out. The man standing in front of you is the result of that mission. And he is on your side, Walter, whether you choose to acknowledge it or not. So here’s what’s going to happen next. You’re going to tell me everything you turned up in your investigation. Then, I am going to use that information to track down the man responsible. When he is dealt with, I am going to come back here and live as peacefully as I can until the next crisis hits. And when that happens, I’ll be the first man stepping up to defend this town. Is that acceptable, Sheriff? Do you think you can live with that?”
He measured me for a long moment, eyes steady, searching for the faintest hint of a lie. I waited patiently, holding his gaze, not worried in the slightest. There is no need to control your facial muscles or carefully monitor your mannerisms when you are telling the truth. Eventually he looked down slightly and gave a little nod.
“I suppose I can.” He put his hands in his pockets and looked westward toward a stand of trees peeking over the back of a gentle hill. “I’m afraid the investigation didn’t turn up much, but I think I know where the shot came from. Let’s get going, we got a long walk ahead of us.”
*****
The sheriff’s idea of a long walk turned out to be about five-hundred and fifty yards, but I guess when a man hits his sixties and has lived a hard life, a half kilometer walk through knee deep snow can seem pretty long.
I fo
llowed behind the sheriff, rifle held loosely, sling adjusted for fast engagement. Walter carried a stick he poked into the snow as he walked, prodding for dead bodies lying dormant. In powder this deep, when it wasn’t quite cold enough to immobilize the undead, one had to stay on the lookout for crawlers.
As Sheriff Elliott crested the hill ahead of me, he stopped suddenly and scrambled backwards, clawing frantically for his pistol. Hampered by the snow, his feet became entangled and he fell onto his butt, cursing like a drunken sailor. I took four running steps and brought my rifle up. Ahead of me, just below the rise and less than five yards away, was a small horde of over two-dozen walkers headed straight for us. A ghoul near the front spotted me and sent up a ragged howl, answered quickly by the corpses behind it.
“Shit.” I raised my rifle.
The first two were recently dead, as evidenced by the fact that they were still wearing shoes. I lined up the little red dot on the first one’s forehead, let out half a breath, and pulled the trigger. A crimson splash burst from the back of its head like someone tossing a cup of red wine. The blood hit the snow, followed closely by a shuddering body. Without willing it, my hands took over and shifted the rifle, giving the second closest walker the same treatment.
“Walt, you all right?” I said, pausing for a moment.
“I’m fine,” he said, flustered. He had landed at a decline, rear end deeper in the snow than his feet and shoulders. I snuck a glance at him as he flailed about, reminding me of a large, spindly turtle.
Another line of walkers closed in, drawing me back to the task at hand. Shifting my aim, I drew a bead on the closest one. It was older, long-dead, resembling a ghoul in the truest sense of the word. Massive gobbets of flesh were missing from its abdomen, allowing swollen gray loops of intestines to show through. It reached for me, mouth creaking open, ragged tongue swirling in a mouthful of black teeth.
“Not today, sweetheart.” My rifle bucked, ending its existence.
I took out three more, finally clearing enough space to help Walter to his feet. Once up, he drew his pistol, stepped to the edge of the hill, and fired one handed. To my surprise, a walker fell, the bullet striking it squarely between the eyes. Double action revolvers are not the easiest guns in the world to fire accurately, which is why most people use automatics. But Walt had carried that pistol for years, and put quite a few rounds through it. Despite its size and weight, he handled it as deftly as illusionist handles a deck of cards.
The big frame moved a few inches to the left and boomed again, the report echoing far into the surrounding countryside, claiming another walker.
“Walt?”
“What?” he said, half turning toward me.
“You’re not helping our situation.” I raised my M-4 and tapped a finger against the suppressor on the end of it. The sheriff looked down at his weapon and shrugged sheepishly.
“Sorry. Fuckers pissed me off.”
“I understand completely. But we should probably make a tactical retreat, don’t you think?”
“Right.” He gestured with his pistol. “Lead the way, Captain America.”
I took the lead as we skirted the edge of the horde, plowing a path for the sheriff. When we had a hundred yard lead, I motioned for Walter to take point again. He raised an arm and pointed ahead, breathing heavily. “It’s not much farther, up at the top of that rise. See the yellow tape?”
I squinted and searched carefully. After a moment, I saw what he was talking about. “Got it.”
“That’s where we’re headed.”
He followed me up the incline, huffing and puffing along. I set an easy pace, making sure to clear as much snow out of his way as possible. The last thing I needed was the old fellow having a heart attack this far away from town.
A couple of minutes later, we stood outside the yellow crime scene tape. I slipped under it and looked around. The bare limbs of trees were thinner ahead of us, providing an unobstructed view of the wall. Taking out a small pair of field glasses, I lay down on my stomach and peered through them, adjusting the focus. Sure enough, I had a clear, unbroken line of sight directly to the section of parapet where Elizabeth was shot.
“Son of a bitch.”
I stood up and looked around again, trying to find some evidence of the shooter’s passing. There was none that I could see.
“Walt, how did you find this place? There have to be a couple hundred acres on this side of the wall. It’s like a needle in a haystack.”
The sheriff allowed himself a small, smug smile. “You ain’t the only Marine around here, you know.”
“You?”
He nodded. “There was a time when I used to run around in a little patch of jungle over in Southeast Asia. Me and a friend of mine had a good old time huntin’ Viet Cong and busting up ambushes. Up until Tet, that is.”
“Tet? Jesus. Where were you?”
He grimaced. “Huê.”
Enough said. “So I’m guessing you took a vector from where the bullet hit the post?”
Walter accepted the change of subject smoothly. “That’s right. I put a straw in the bullet hole and lined my old hunting rifle up with it, and it pointed right at that slope up ahead. At first, it didn’t make any sense for the shot to come from there, but when I got here, I realized if the shooter belly crawled to this spot, he would be just low enough not to skyline himself. If he was camouflaged, he’d be practically invisible. Then I found this.”
He rooted around in a breast pocket of his heavy Sheriff’s Department jacket and produced a shell casing. I took it from him and looked it over. The brass was unpolished, and the cartridge stamp indicated 7.62x54 rather than the 7.62x51 used by the US military.
“Russian,” I said.
“Looks that way. I’d bet the beer money it came from a Dragunov, or a PSL.”
I thought about the Flotilla, and the crates of Russian ammo Eric and I had found at the Legion’s supply caches, and felt my heart sink. Walter reached for the shell casing. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
I sighed, and kicked at a pile of snow. “Yeah. This just got a lot more complicated.”
TWENTY-NINE
“I’m going with you,” Eric said.
I sighed, and laid the upper receiver of my M-6 on the table. The rifle was in pieces, lying among wads of oil soaked cloth and bottles of solvent. “No, Eric, you’re not.”
“Gabe, I’m not letting you go after this guy alone. You know it takes at least two people to survive out there.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Really? Okay then, tell me something. How are you going to keep the walkers away while you’re asleep, huh? What happens if you’re spotted by marauders? You remember what happened with Ronnie Kilpatrick’s gang, right? If you run into something like that on your own, you’re a dead man.”
I began reassembling the M-6. It was a 5.56mm version, a weapon that had travelled with me from North Carolina. I chose it over my 6.8 SPC because its ammo was lighter, and with the distance I would be traveling, I needed to pack light.
I said, “That’s not going to happen.”
“You don’t know that.” Eric ran his hands through his longish hair and gripped it, face tense with frustration. He limped over to the counter and leaned against it, taking some of the weight off his sore leg. The wound was mostly healed, but it bothered him if he used it too strenuously. It would be at least another month before he could return to work, and the leg might never be a hundred percent again.
“It’s suicide to go out there alone, and you know it,” he said.
“Eric, you can barely walk. What are you going to do, crawl to Blackmire?”
He ground his teeth, head leaning to one side. I knew that expression well; it was the one that said, ‘you’re right, but I don’t like it’. “Okay, fine. Take someone else with you.”
I stood up and pulled back the rifle’s charging handle, peering into the chamber. “Like who?”
“Maybe Sanchez, or Flannigan.”
I shook my head. “No can do. They’re good soldiers, but they’re not cut out for what I’m up against.”
“Okay, what about one of Ethan’s guys? Maybe Cole, or Hicks.”
“They’re regular Army. I’d have to get permission from their CO, and that’s not going to happen. He won’t risk any of his men to settle a personal vendetta, not even for me.”
“But Gabe-”
I cut him off with a swipe of my hand. “No buts, Eric. I’m doing this alone. That’s it. End of discussion.”
He opened his mouth to lodge a protest, but it died on his lips. Whatever he saw on my face forestalled any further argument. He shook his head sadly.
“Will you at least let me help you pack?”
*****
There is an old adage every soldiering man lives by, and it goes like this:
Ounces equal pounds, pounds equal pain.
Fortunately, if you are six-foot five and weigh in at around 240 to 250 lbs (depending on your diet over the last few days and whether or not you have stayed properly hydrated), you can carry a lot of pounds without inflicting a lot of pain. There is another adage I live by, not necessarily as popular as the aforementioned one due to the fact that I made it up, and it goes like this:
You can never have too much ammo.
Or the foreshortened version:
Ammo is your friend.
But before one packs those heavy little murderous miracles of chemistry, metallurgy, and engineering into the large MOLLE pack, you have to decide what implement of death you will be firing them out of. Or not firing, if all goes well, which in my experience it usually does not.
The urge to pack the six-eight was strong; it doesn’t have much more range than 5.56, but it packs a hell of a wallop. Not as powerful as a .308, but if you double tap someone in the chest at three-hundred yards, chances are pretty good they’re not getting back up. But as previously mentioned, 6.8 SPC is heavier than 5.56, and if I used the smaller cartridge, I could carry more rounds for the same amount of weight.