by James Cook
Outlined in the light was the figure of a young man, lean, a bit on the tall side, deceptively broad through the shoulders, the kind that looks 180 but is closer to 200. I threaded my way through the rows of tables and stopped, looking over his shoulder. There was a book in front of him. He had opened it to the first page, the blank one before you get to the front matter where autographs go if you happen to meet the author. There was a dedication written in neat, flowing script. I recognized the handwriting.
For my soldier, my heart, my warrior-poet.
Happy birthday.
M.
He noted my presence and closed the book.
“The Collected Poems of Rudyard Kipling.”
A nod. “He’s one of the greats.”
“Where did Miranda get it?”
The blue eyes were startled. “How’d you know?”
“Miranda’s a special girl. I make it a point to look after her.”
The surprise diminished, replaced by resignation. “It’s only been a few months, but things have moved pretty quickly between us.”
“Do you love her?”
He looked at the candle, ran his fingertips over the flame, and nodded. “Yes. More than I’ve ever loved anyone. My old man used to tell me when you find the right one, you just know. I always thought he was full of shit.”
“But not anymore?”
“Nope.”
I sat down across from him and moved the candle to the left so I could see him better. “Can I ask you a question? Slightly off topic.”
“Sure.”
“Who trained you?”
He covered it well, but I caught it. A shift in the eyes, a pause in the movement of hands over leather-bound hardcover, a flicker of tension in the shoulders. He gave a casual shrug. “I’ve been in the Army for over two years now. Along the way, I figured out the guys that work hardest at being good soldiers tend to live longer. So I improved.”
The delivery was smooth, but it lacked a certain note of sincerity. Like the kind of thing that is easy because it is well practiced. “Don’t bullshit me, kid. This ain’t my first rodeo. I can smell it from a mile away.”
The eyes shifted again, narrowed slightly. “What are you drivin’ at?”
“You move like a guy I used to know in Force Recon. You can sleep sitting up; I’ve seen you do it. You handle a carbine like a Green Beret. Your knowledge of land navigation is impeccable. You apply camouflage better than most Marine snipers. I’ve fought with Navy SEALS that couldn’t clear a room or execute a dynamic entry as smoothly as you. You shoot as well as Eric Riordan, and that’s saying something. You’re as comfortable fighting at night, wearing NVGs, as you are in daylight. If I didn’t know better, Specialist Caleb Theophilus Hicks, I’d say you’ve been training since you were old enough to walk.”
I leaned forward, then, and lowered my voice. “Or maybe I don’t know better.”
All pretense evaporated. The eyes became clear and shrewd. The sleepy, lazy expression sharpened, as though carved from granite. He went so completely, utterly still, I began to wonder if he was real, or if I was dreaming the whole thing.
“What about you, Gabriel Garrett?” he said. “I have an inkling as to the training marines get, and what I’ve seen from you is way beyond that. Why don’t you let me in on some of your secrets, huh? You know, since we’re sharing.”
I smiled and sat back in my chair. “Point taken.”
Silence hung heavy between us for a long moment. We made no eye contact, watching the flame flicker and dance atop the little beeswax candle. The wind picked up outside, scraping ice along the walls and shaking the rafters. The tavern protested with a chorus of creaks and groans. A bird began chirping somewhere beyond the front door, a clear, melodious trill in the oppressive dark.
“Gonna be a long day,” Hicks said finally.
“That it is. I should probably start waking people up.” I stood up and stretched, wishing like hell I wasn’t out of instant coffee.
“You ever wonder if this is all gonna end some day?”
I looked down to see Hicks gazing thoughtfully at the cold night beyond a window. “What do you mean?”
“All the fighting and killing. Seems to me we’d all be a lot better off if we just agreed to respect each other’s dignity and work together so everyone can get by. That’d be the sensible thing to do. The rational thing.”
“That’s the problem, Caleb. Reason and sensibility are precious commodities, and in short supply. And every once in a while, in order to keep the folks willing to work for a living safe, guys like you and me have to engage in a little irrationality ourselves. People have lots of words for it. Duty, justice, self-defense, vengeance, murder. But in the end its all the same. It’s killing, plain and simple. Whether it’s right or wrong is entirely a question of perspective. Kill a man in anger, and you’re a criminal. Kill a man for your country, and you’re a hero. Either way, the guy on the other side of the equation is just as dead. You want to know what I call it? Necessary. That’s what. I care about good people. I want them to live in safety and as much comfort as they can earn. I have no patience for those who seek to take from the hard work of others through use of violence. So today, I’m going to give some bright people a few orders, and an unknown number of men will show up here in Brownsville, and we will kill them. Not because of any high-minded notion of duty or justice, but because it is necessary so people around here can sleep safe in their beds at night. And that’s all there is to it.”
Hicks let out a bitter chuckle. “And here I thought we were fighting the good fight.”
“If it helps you sleep better, kid, keep telling yourself that.”
As I walked out the door, a voice followed me, oratory, cultured, completely devoid of accent.
“Though all we knew depart,
the old commandments stand.
In courage keep your heart,
in strength, lift up your hand.”
*****
Dawn burned clear and yellow through a cloudless sky.
I looked around at the catwalk, and the guard towers, and the shuffling figures in the town below, and understood why through the course of history, in cultures and armies around the world, warriors have always feared, above all else, being captured and turned over to the enemy’s women.
There were only enough outfits for thirty of them, and those had to be hastily laundered and repaired. Thankfully, the generators seized from the now-defunct Crow Hunters allowed for the use of washers and dryers, although the stains were still visible. Considering what their former owners’ occupations had been, it was easy to assume the blood was someone else’s. At least I hoped that’s what Blackmire’s men would think, anyway.
Sheriff Tucker was out there among them, a few extra layers of clothing under her disguise to hide her feminine physique and make her look bigger. There were no overweight women in Brownsville—or anywhere else since the Outbreak that I had seen—which made things much easier. Very large breasts were rare, as were exceptionally wide hips, which meant as long as a woman was roughly the right height, was willing to endure the necessary haircut, and wound a scarf around her face to hide her features, she could pull off the disguise by merit of pressing her chest flat with tightly wound strips of fabric. Not the most comfortable solution, but effective.
They carried the mercenaries’ weapons, of which I had instructed them in the proper use thereof. I covered the plan repetitively until everyone knew their role and could recite it without hesitation. They were as well prepared as they could be under the circumstances. I just had to hope it would be enough.
As I watched the sun rise, my earpiece came to life. “Alpha, Bravo. I have visual. Over.”
“Copy, Bravo. How many are we dealing with? Over.”
“I count fifty-two. All on horseback. Over.”
I let out a low whistle. Fifty-two was more than I expected. But in a way, it was a good thing. With that many men, maybe Tanner would be among them. The
possibility appealed very much indeed.
“Copy. Get yourself back here ASAP. Over.”
“Wilco. Bravo out.”
‘Bravo’ was Hicks. I had sent him out an hour earlier to scout the highway leading in to Brownsville. Sheriff Tucker loaned him her horse with the stern admonishment to bring it back safe and unharmed. Hicks promised he would, then swung into the saddle as if he were born there and rode away.
“That boy barely holds the reins,” Tucker said. “Guides with his knees. Quite an impressive young man.”
I laughed quietly. “You have no idea.”
Presently, said soldier came riding back through the main gate, head lowered, legs braced against the stirrups, wind whipping back his hair. He wheeled the horse to a stop a few feet in front of Sheriff Tucker, then hopped down and rubbed the animal’s neck, whispering in its ear. It’s sweat-streaked flanks continued to heave, but it calmed down.
“All right, Alpha,” he radioed. “Gonna take position.”
“Copy. Nice work, killer.”
He looked my way and offered a mock salute, then headed for the rooftop he would be firing from. He had my M-110, given to him on loan, strapped across his back.
I settled in and waited.
Half an hour later, according to the wind-up watch I acquired in a quick bit of bartering with Penny earlier in the day, the clomp of hooves and jingle of harness made its way to my ears. “All stations, stand by,” I said.
As the riders drew closer, I watched them through my little binoculars. They looked relaxed enough, weapons slung, hands on the reins, riding easy in the saddle. I reached for the radio and switched channels. “Hey Sheriff.”
“Hey yourself.”
“The Pinkertons are coming. Your posse ready to slap iron?”
There was a chuckle in her voice when she answered, and an affected drawl. “Yessir. These gals are fit to kick up a row.”
“Sounds good. Rustle up the shitbird, if you please.”
“Can do. Any advice as regards the forthcoming conflagration?”
“The Lord created all men, but Sam Colt made ‘em equal. In my experience, the same rule applies across the gender lines.”
“Understood. Cowboy up, Mr. Garrett.”
Tucker climbed a ladder down from the north catwalk and strode into the comms building. A moment later, she emerged with Powell in tow, then resumed her place on the wall. Just as her boots landed on the planks, the first riders came through the main gate.
I’d had a conversation with Powell earlier in the morning which consisted of me showing him my .338 rifle, holding up one of its very large rounds where he could see it, explaining to him what kind of damage such a weapon could do at less than two-hundred yards, and informing him that, when the attack commenced, the crosshairs on my rather fancy Nightforce scope would be focused squarely on the center of his back.
“If you want to know what your spine looks like before you die,” I said to him, “then by all means, attempt some foolish fuckery and warn Blackmire’s men of their impending doom. However, if you wish to remain among the living for a bit longer, I would strongly caution you against such action. Nod if you understand.”
He nodded. Rapidly.
Now he stood in the town square, smiling and waving as if nothing were amiss. The riders streamed in at a canter, laughing amongst themselves, no doubt looking forward to a little quality time with the captured women. I didn’t recognize the rider at their head. Both his eyes were intact, and he was not wearing a black, wide-brimmed hat. Searching the others, I felt a surge of disappointment. No sign of Blackmire.
Oh well. Content yourself with slaughtering his men.
As the last rider made it through the gate, Sheriff Tucker strolled casually over, shut it, and locked it. The lead rider stopped a few feet in front of Powell and exchanged a few words. Reaching down, I hit the talk button on my radio.
“Stand by for my signal.”
The women pretending to be Crow Hunter guards slowly, nonchalantly wandered away from the north side of the wall, eyes cast toward the fields and forests in the distance, backs turned to Blackmire’s men, no conversation among them lest the pitch of their voices give them away. Tucker stayed near the back, rifle over her shoulder, strolling silently along. When they were far enough away, I keyed the radio again.
“All right. Give the signal.”
On the other side of town, a young woman named Shelly Moore pointed a rifle toward the sky and fired a single shot. It had the intended effect, causing Blackmire’s men to startle and look southward. Powell immediately turned on his heel and ran away as fast as his legs could carry him, much to the consternation of the black clad asshole he had been talking to. With a deep sense of satisfaction, I watched understanding dawn in his eyes. He turned to shout at his men, but it was already too late. In a house a couple of blocks east of where the riders sat astride their horses, Sergeant Isaac Cole picked up a transmitter, opened a hard metal cover, and pressed a switch.
Around the riders, set thirty meters away and aimed slightly upward, four M-18 Claymore mines, each containing 700 1/8th inch steel balls set into epoxy resin and backed by C-4 explosive, detonated.
The effect was devastating.
2800 of the aforementioned steel balls exploded outward at incredible velocity, ripping into the Blackmire guards and their mounts like a steel tornado. The force of the blast knocked over the ones closest to the detonation and sent them rolling. Horses screamed, reared, and collapsed. Shredded sacks of meat that were once men slid limply from saddles. The men on the edges of the group still alive found themselves under assault by powerful tons of agonized flesh and sharp, flailing hooves.
Here, a man tries to stand up, but gets too close to a horse’s legs and takes a steel-shod kick to the face. He goes down and does not get up. There, a figure with a savaged red mess where his left side used to be pushes himself partially up, only to have a horse fall sideways and land directly on his head. His legs thrash for a moment, then go still.
As bad as it was, the claymores didn’t kill all of them. Only about half the Blackmire guardsmen died in the initial blast, but almost all of the survivors were wounded. They screamed orders at one another, desperately fighting to control their panicked mounts, reaching for weapons, trying to go on the offensive against an enemy they couldn’t even see.
“Sanchez,” I said into the mouthpiece, “you’re up.”
In the guard tower across from me, the young militiaman bent down, picked up a long metal canister, took aim, and fired. There was a tremendous crack, then the brief hiss of a LAW rocket covering two-hundred yards in less than a second, and then a BOOM that whacked me in the chest and shook the tower under my feet. The rocket detonated in the center of the surviving guardsmen, sending men, horses, and pieces of men and horses sailing through the air, many of them landing on porches and rooftops.
The radio button clicked. “Tucker, you are clear to engage.”
“Ten-four.”
Moments later, thirty women, all disguised as Crow Hunters, descended on the surviving guardsmen from an elevated position, leveled their rifles, and opened fire. Hefting my .338, I joined them.
I started with the ones still in the saddle. There weren’t many. A torso appeared in my vision, shirt torn and bloody. I pulled the trigger and watched about of pound of bone and flesh explode from his back. Shifting aim, I found a man trying to return fire at the women and squeezed the trigger again. The top half of his head exploded, the force of the impact throwing him sideways from the saddle.
I worked the bolt, expended the spent cartridge, and shucked another one in. I looked around for movement. Didn’t find any. Across the way, Tucker’s voice rose above the chattering din of automatic weapons.
“Cease fire! That’s enough, they’re all down! Cease fire!”
It took a while, but eventually the shooting stopped. In the town below, the few horses who somehow managed to survive the ambush galloped away in blind panic
. None of their riders appeared to be so lucky. Where once there had been a neat town square, paved and swept with painted white squares for stalls on market day, now stood what could only be described as the world’s largest chum bucket. Steam rose in the cold air from bundles of intestines, glistening organs, and gleaming white bone. Blood quite literally ran in the streets.
The women along the battlements stared at what they had done, mouths hanging open, breath coming in ragged gasps. They had started the day fired up and ready to fight, but now looked a little pale around the gills. A few of them turned away, leaned over the wall, and lost their breakfast. Most, however, simply shouldered their rifles, took a deep breath, and looked to Sheriff Tucker for instructions. I felt an odd sort of pride for them.
“We’re all clear, Mr. Garrett,” the sheriff’s voice said in my ear. “What should we do now?”
The wind picked up the smell of ruptured intestines, carried it to my tower, and dropped it on my face. I grimaced, knowing what lay ahead.
“We made a hell of a mess, Sheriff. Now we have to clean it up.”
*****
Some bright day, a long time from now when the walking dead are just a lurid entry in the pages of history, assuming the human race is still around, I hope someone notates that for all the harm they did, the infected occasionally had their uses.
Disposing of dead bodies being chief among them.
The Blackmire guardsmen went over the wall as whole bodies, for the most part. About a dozen or more had been torn apart and eviscerated, and I had a feeling people were going to be tracking down bad smells and finding bits and pieces for weeks to come. The dead horses, on the other hand, were a bigger problem.
I put my falcata to hard use that day, but not against enemies or the undead. Instead, I used it to pare down once-magnificent animals into manageable portions so the meat could be smoked, dried, and preserved. Some of it would be put to more immediate use such as stews and pot roast, while about a hundred pounds or so went into cold storage to be consumed in days to come. The idea of eating the horses of men I had killed was off-putting to say the least, but the women of Brownsville were nothing if not practical. As Penny put it, there was no sense is letting good protein go to waste.