Surviving the Dead (Book 4): Fire In Winter

by James Cook

  I smiled. “I’m just glad I could be there to help. In the future, you might want to think about joining up with a larger group before you get back on the road. It’s not safe out there.”

  He looked down, watery eyes regretful. “Yes, I realize that now. I was a damn fool to think we could make it all the way from the river without running into trouble. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  I patted him on the shoulder. “I’m glad to hear it. Listen, I hate to cut this short, but I have somewhere I need to be.”

  He reached out to shake my hand. “I understand completely. If you ever find yourself in Fort Holloway, come and see us. Ask anybody around town, they’ll tell you where to find me.”

  I had heard of Fort Holloway, and had a general idea where it was, but had never been there. “I’ll be sure to do that. You take care, Harold.”

  An hour later, I had traded the slavers’ gear to replace the items I left at the Runner camp, and was back on the road.

  *****

  One of the effects of over ninety-nine percent of the world dying off is that once you leave the trade routes behind, you can travel a very long way without seeing another living human being. You do, however, see a lot what used to be living human beings.

  The infected were everywhere, maybe a hundred or more per square mile, traveling in hordes of varying sizes. I avoided them as much as possible, but due to their acute hearing and eerie ability to triangulate noise with lethal accuracy, I was frequently forced to set a running pace in order to outdistance them. The problem with this was every time I shook off one horde, another stood poised and ready to take its place.

  The first night, I slept in a large farm equipment storage building surrounded by a copse of cedars. There was a pile of charred detritus nearby that had once been a house, and a Ford pickup truck with dry-rotted tires and smears of blood on the windshield. The surrounding land had once been a sprawling farm, but was now just flat squares of undisturbed snow stretching between patches of gray, leafless trees.

  The building before me consisted of two walls supporting a pitched tin roof with a couple of steel support columns in the middle. A rusted, disused combine sat dejectedly on one side of the columns, while a bevy of attachments occupied the other space, slowly sinking into the dirt. Despite the high winds, the scene had that quiet, hushed feeling a place gets when it is abandoned long enough. It was a feeling I was very familiar with, as were all Outbreak survivors. Much like fine wine, I had learned to appreciate its diverse and particular flavors.

  Looking behind me, I spotted the horde that had been dogging my trail all day. Under other circumstances, I would have left them far behind. But being that I was traveling in more or less a straight line, all they had to do was keep walking and eventually one of them would spot me. It would be dark soon, and the storage building was the only shelter available. There was no loft above me, but the top of the combine was large enough to sleep on. It would have to do.

  Working quickly, I gathered some firewood, dug an old Weber grill out of a snowbank, and set up my distraction system.

  Anti-walker survival technique number 43: Cut a length of string (or para-cord, or twine, or dental floss, or vine, or whatever you have on hand) about eighteen inches long, tie it in a loop, and then attach some cans, sticks, and other rattly things to it. Run another length of para-cord (or whatever) through the loop, then string it out a good distance from where you will be sleeping. In this case the side view mirror of the pickup truck with the cans dangling against the metal fender. Then run it back to camp and tie it off next to your bedroll so it is close at hand. When you wake up in the morning, stay where the infected can’t see you and tug the string vigorously. The cans will make a God-awful racket and attract the undead. When enough of them leave to investigate, untie the para-cord, reel it in, and make your escape. You will lose the rattly thing, but you can always make another one later. One thing there is no shortage of at the end of the world is garbage.

  With the can-laden para-cord in place, I dragged the Weber grill atop the combine then followed up with a few armfuls of firewood. I would have liked to gather more, but the arrival of the infected forestalled such efforts. Settling in for the night, I broke the legs off the grill, set it down on the combine’s roof, and made a small fire. I wasn’t worried about being spotted; the two walls of the storage building and the surrounding evergreens provided excellent concealment. Someone would literally have to step around the corner to see me. The smoke might be detectable farther away, but without a telltale orange glow, it would be highly difficult to locate.

  The infected surrounded the combine while I ate my meager dinner, so I kept my eyes down and focused on what was directly in front of me. Long experience may have inured me to the terror the ghouls can inspire, but looking at them still kills my appetite.

  Finished, I added a couple of sticks to the fire and stretched out on my bedroll. I couldn’t seem to get comfortable, so I used my knife and a few well-placed strikes from the hilt of my falcata to remove the windshield from the cab. The leather covering driver’s seat was a little cracked, but the padding underneath was still remarkably intact. I cut it out and placed it under my ground mat. That did the trick.

  The next morning, I used the distraction system for the purpose for which it was intended, then set out due west. I kept a brisk pace, walking forty steps then running forty steps, over and over, until the undead were a speck on the horizon. I was safe for the moment, but I knew there would be more. There always were.

  When the sun reached its zenith, I climbed on top of an overturned tractor-trailer and ate a quick, cold lunch, then continued on. My path took me through a patch of forest where I ran afoul of a walker lying dormant under the snow.

  I was jogging along, counting off my twenty-sixth running step, when the toe of my right boot hit something and I went pitching over onto my face. I was up in an instant, but it was enough time for the walker to raise its head and get a grip on my pants leg. Not for the first time, I marveled at the strength of the rotten thing. It would have been easier to cut its hand off than attempt to pry it loose. As it was, I simply leveled my rifle, lined the barrel up with its forehead, and pulled the trigger. The walker went limp.

  “Rest in peace, you poor bastard.”

  The rest of the day passed quietly enough, wearing on toward nightfall. A low bank of steel-colored clouds moved in from the north like an invading army, and the temperature dropped about fifteen degrees. Before long, I began passing frosted deadfalls of walkers, frozen where they stood and toppled atop one another. As I passed, the only thing that moved was their eyes. Even covered in a milky white film, I could still see the hunger in those mindless gazes.

  I checked my rifle for the umpteenth time and picked up the pace.

  It was well after dark before I finally found a place to take shelter: the roof of an old utility shed. I tried picking the lock, but even with a spritz of rust-breaking compound, it was too deteriorated to turn. Cursing my luck, I tossed my pack on the roof, pushed an old wooden cable spool the size of a dinner table next to the wall, and climbed up.

  Around midnight, I felt the soft, tickling caress of snowflakes on my face in the pitch darkness, prompting another round of vicious cursing. Moving in the dark, I set up my pup tent by feel and climbed in. Normally I preferred to sleep without it, as it obscured my view of the surrounding terrain. But if I didn’t take shelter, I would wake up soaked to the skin. Not an acceptable option in sub-freezing conditions.

  It continued getting colder until, even huddled in my sleeping bag and fully dressed, I couldn’t stop shivering. If I slept more than two hours that night, I would be amazed. I was awake when the sun broke the horizon, and not wanting to prolong my misery, I packed my things and got moving.

  So far I had not encountered anything too difficult to endure, but nearly ten months of easy living in Hollow Rock had softened me. I longed for the feeling of a soft bed and a warm woman to share it with. Th
e image of Elizabeth lying next to me sent an ache through my chest so intense that, for a moment, I could have sworn I had been stabbed. Thinking about her lying in that hospital bed, probably wondering if I was still alive, made me seriously contemplate turning around and going home. Liz had made it clear she would not think less of me if I did.

  Too late for that now. You have to end this.

  Shoving aside all thoughts of home, I plodded onward.

  THIRTY-THREE

  After a night spent in shivering agony, and dreading the prospect of a repeat performance as night fell over Tennessee, the gabled roof of an abandoned house in the distance was a welcome sight. The other houses I had passed for the last few miles were nothing more than piles of charred rubble, which struck me as odd, because while it is not unusual to see a few burned out structures here and there, finding so many on one lonely stretch of highway was very strange indeed.

  According to my map, I was just a few miles north of I-40 and closing in on State Highway 70, headed northwest. If I went about ten miles further north, I would run into a thin stretch of greenery known as the Tennessee Safari Park, and if I turned southward, there was the Hatchie National Wildlife Refuge. Neither destination interested me, however, as my path lay straight ahead to a place just over twenty miles away, in what was once the Chickasaw National Wildlife Refuge—a den of thieves, raiders, slavers, marauders, and other assorted scum, all lorded over by a man who ruled the place with an iron fist, a man who had dubbed the town by the only name he ever gave.

  Blackmire.

  There was a man there named Marco who had hired a group of half-assed mercenaries and sent them to draw me out and capture me. Those mercenaries tortured and murdered a good and decent man and, for that, Marco was going to pay.

  If my theory was correct, Marco was working for Tanner, and if I found him, he might be able to point me in the right direction. Not exactly the most well-thought-out plan, but it was all I had to go on. If Marco couldn’t lead me to Tanner, I would be back to square one.

  But that was a problem for tomorrow.

  Night was fast approaching, and I needed to rest.

  The house was still in relatively good condition, save for peeling paint, sagging porch steps, and a few broken windows. A quick recon around the perimeter revealed no signs of recent habitation, but there was a shed in the back—about the size of the trailers I used to see at construction sites—with a rusted chain and padlock holding the door shut. Oddly, the shed had no windows, with the chained door being the only way in. A few raps on the door, ear pressed against the cold wood, revealed no noise from within. I briefly considered chopping my way in with my axe, but decided against it. It was only mild curiosity that made me want to know what was inside, not necessity, and doing so would make a hell of a lot of noise. I was pretty sure I had shaken the last horde that spotted me from my trail, and had no interest in attracting them again. With a last curious glance, I left the shed be.

  The back door to the house was unlocked, so with rifle leveled and ears straining, I pushed my way inside. There was enough light to see by, revealing a ransacked kitchen and pantry directly in front of me. It looked as if someone had long ago found this place and picked it clean. The living room was empty except for a broken lamp lying listlessly in one corner, as was a bathroom in an adjacent hallway. Why someone would remove a toilet and sink was entirely beyond me, but that was what happened.

  Weird.

  The first eight stairs had been pried away from the staircase and the supporting structure beneath had been savaged with an axe; a common defense against the undead. I tossed my pack onto the next floor, grabbed the edge so my back was to the staircase, did half a pull-up, and swung my legs over my head. I finished up lying flat on my stomach.

  The upstairs portion of the house, consisting of three bedrooms and a laundry room, were in much the same condition as the downstairs rooms. Even the carpets had been taken, revealing the tightly fitted plywood beneath. My boots sent up little spouts of dust as I walked along the creaking floor, searching for signs of habitation. There were none. I was alone. Lowering my rifle, I stepped into the bedroom with the best view of the downstairs area.

  “As good a place as any.”

  After laying out my bedroll and eating a quick dinner, I scattered broken glass and a few handfuls of rocks beneath the windows, tied a rattle alarm across both doors, and opened all the interior doors of the house. Doing so improved the house’s acoustics, allowing me to hear any sounds coming from downstairs. Finished, I stretched out on the floor to get some rest.

  Sleep was not long in coming.

  *****

  I awoke to the sound of crunching glass.

  My first thought was the infected had found me and somehow gotten inside, but I quickly dismissed that idea. Both doors were locked, and they would not have been able to get through the windows without making a hell of a noise. Which lead to only one conclusion.

  I was not alone.

  Moving slowly, I donned my NVGs, grabbed my M-6, and crawled toward the door. Reaching it, I gazed toward the living room, scanning the gray and white thermal image for heat signatures. Nothing. Unconvinced, I adjusted the goggles’ FLIR to its highest setting and looked again. At the window closest to the kitchen, just before the wall on that side cut off my view, I saw an outline. It was faint, barely detectable, but there. And definitely man-shaped.

  If I had to guess, I would say the individual at the window had crept to it, checked for movement, then stepped slowly over the sill. To his dismay, when he put his weight down, his boot crunched a mess of glass, rocks, and dirt, and he had stepped quickly back. I imagined him crouching in the dark, heart racing, eyes wide, ears straining for the slightest sound. It’s what I would have done, anyway.

  If I stayed quiet and gave him no reason to run, maybe he would try again. I just had to hope he was alone, or things could get very ugly, very quickly. Backing off a few feet, I assumed a seated firing position, elbows resting on my knees, and waited.

  To give credit where it is due, he was patient. He did not panic and run. After several minutes, he stood slowly, head appearing around the edge of the window. I kept my sights on him, remaining still as a statue.

  Gradually, carefully, he lowered one foot over the threshold. This time, rather than stepping down, he gently nudged his boot from side to side, brushing away the glass and debris with barely a sound. When he had his foot planted, he brought the other leg in and repeated the process. Now inside the room, he took one more cautious step and was clear of the countermeasures.

  His next obstacle was crossing the floor without making the boards creak. Very quickly, I realized he had a great deal of practice at this. His footfalls were precise and deliberate, going to places he knew would not groan under his weight. In less than a minute, he was standing under same lip I had climbed a few hours ago. I watched him reach his hands up, grab hold, and lever himself to the second floor in the same manner I had, albeit with more grace and stealth.

  Finally, he was standing and doing his tip-toe creeping routine down the hallway, headed for my room. The fact that he knew which one I was in meant he had watched me arrive, a revelation I found not at all comforting. As he approached, I realized he was a large man, maybe six-foot two or three, and probably around two-hundred twenty pounds, give or take. Judging by the way he moved, he was fit and knew how to handle himself.

  Oh well. Nothing a bullet won’t fix.

  Drawing closer, his hands went into his pockets and came out clutching two small objects. One of them was obviously a gun, but I couldn’t tell what the other one was. It was about a foot long, and seemed to have a bit of flexion to it. With dull dread, and blooming anger, I realized it was a blackjack—basically a coiled spring with a large lead weight on the end encased in braided leather. I had used weapons like that a few times, and knew very well how deceptively deadly they could be. Hit someone straight on like you are swinging a baton, and it won’t do much damage.
Swing it in a whipping motion, giving a little flick of your wrist at the end, and you can knock a hole in someone’s skull with minimal effort. Nasty little things.

  As quietly as I could, I stood up and crept into a corner where I would have a clear shot at his back as he stepped through the door. Rifle leveled, I focused on my breathing and waited, seconds ticking slowly by. After what felt like an hour, but was probably only a minute or two, I saw his head appear through the doorway, looking around. A balaclava covered his face, making his features indistinguishable. He took a few tentative steps in, head leaning forward as he squinted at my bedroll. There was a hesitation in his stride, as if he were beginning to realize something was wrong with the dim, rumpled outline of my sleeping bag.

  “Don’t move,” I said.

  Without hesitation, he whipped his head in the direction of my voice and started to raise his weapon. In a situation like that, you have to make a split second decision. I wanted to question this guy, but if he fired that gun, it would bring every walker in a square mile down on my head. Worse, he might actually hit me. There was no choice at all, really. I squeezed the trigger three times, all three rounds punching holes through his forehead in a space the diameter of a half-dollar. The pistol dropped from nerveless fingers as he fell, legs twitching in death spasms. I began to walk closer, but stepped back in disgust as his bowels loosened.

  “Jesus…”

  Not wanting to run into any more surprises, I put two more rounds through his chest, then climbed out the same window the intruder used and conducted a perimeter sweep. Once I felt confident the intruder had acted alone, I followed his tracks into the forest. They led to a cleverly camouflaged hunting lodge, situated in the saddle of two hills, surrounded by tall pines. It was covered in camo nets, and the walls of the lodge itself were painted in swirls of white, green, and brown. As I stood next to the window, I had a clear view of the house in the distance.