by James Cook
Read on for an exciting preview of, The Passenger: A Surviving the Dead Novel, by James N. Cook and Joshua Guess!
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Also by James N. Cook:
No Easy Hope
This Shattered Land
Warrior Within
The Passenger
ONE
I've heard it said that dying is easy.
Some philosophers liken it to being born again, and indeed, many religions state it in those terms explicitly. I'm not a philosopher myself, but I have an advantage over them—I've been there. As the old saw goes, dying is easy. Living is hard.
Reanimating is a different ballgame altogether.
You remember it. It's not like being born in the sense that your awareness develops over time, the memories of blind panic crushed into singularity by the years of consciousness that come later. I remember it all. I was a man, once. I had a job, a family. I had a mortgage, and a nice car, and a collection of ties that had taken years of curating to get just right.
I had a name. I swear I did.
The one blessing that came with my death was that it was quick. I remember trying to escape the violence, swarms of undead being cut down by men in uniforms behind me. My family made it through the barricade ahead of me. As I moved through, one of those things managed to snag my hand. There was pain. I looked back to see the last two fingers on my right hand gone.
Even then, we knew what a bite meant. There was no time for worry or fear. I spent most of my adult life as a man who never had a chance to make a stand or be brave, but I did at that moment. My family looked at me as I clutched that wounded limb, the soldiers around us staring as they finished the cleanup.
I knew the options. I'd heard them enough times to feel the words indelibly burned into my mind. I could go easy and quick, or I could wait it out. Suffer, burn, die anyway. Then come back.
I didn't think about it for long. I rushed forward to kiss them goodbye, whispered a request to the soldier closest to me, and then ran back through the barricade as fast as my feet would take me. The bites could kill quickly, very quickly. I didn't want to be a danger to my family, or other people lucky enough to escape the swarm unharmed.
There weren't many undead left outside the barricade, and every one of them was moving in the opposite direction. Knowing I was already dead gave me a recklessness I wouldn't have risked otherwise. The few infected that came close enough to almost touch me were kicked or shoved in my desperate attempt to get far enough away that my family wouldn't see me fall.
I was maybe a hundred feet from the barricade when the shot rang out. It took me high in the shoulder, proving that not all marksmen are created equal. The push of the bullet threw me off balance, and I hit the ground at the edge of a small hill. Tail over teakettle, I rolled and thrashed through brush and debris. I heard my clothes tear against a hundred small obstructions; felt the damaged muscle and sinew in my upper back scream at the brutal earth every time I slammed against it.
The trip down the side of the hill seemed to last forever, but finally, it ended. My last memory as a living man was lying half-submerged in a babbling stream. It was cold. I was cold. I listened to the crack of gunshots slow down and eventually fade away. I looked up at the sky and wondered how I'd missed the beauty of the stars for all those years.
Funny, I thought. Only at the twilight of humankind, when all the lights have gone out, do I finally see the lovely vastness that’s always been there. Just beyond the border of my cluttered little life.
And then I died.
*****
My body woke up before I did.
I don't know if it works that way for the other shambling corpses that make up my current peer group, but my first memory of my new life was coming to sudden and unfortunate consciousness as my body shredded the throat of a screaming man. My instinct was to pull away in horror, but I couldn't. In fact, I couldn't even look away.
I was a passenger. Read-only reality.
I railed and struggled to stop what my body was doing, to no avail. My hands—look there, that's my wedding ring, done in white gold inlays on tungsten carbide—pulled gobbets of flesh from what became a corpse during my struggles.
The full spectrum of sensory data was there, but I had no control over any of it. You can't imagine what it's like. It's not the same as watching some horrific television show you can't turn off. You're actually a part of the program. I felt the hot blood of the dead man running down my fingers. I smelled the sour perspiration on his skin. I heard his bowels cut loose, could taste the warm, salty meat of him as my estranged fingers jammed pieces into my mouth.
After an hour or so of eating and doing the mental equivalent of vomiting inside my own head, I heard something that filled me with hope: gunfire. The area we were in was unfamiliar, so I couldn't be sure if the shooters were soldiers or unsuspecting survivors. Briefly, I wondered how far my errant body had traveled under its new management, but gave up that curiosity when I realized it didn't matter. Wherever I had roamed, I hoped it was far enough away that my family wouldn't chance upon me. I didn't want them to see me this way.
Whoever was firing that gun had a chance to end this for me. My body was already moving toward the sound of the shots.
My God, the shots.
The sound.
The best way I can describe it is like hearing in 3-D. Something about the sonic waves ricocheting from the sharp crack of the rifle was akin to depth perception, but far more powerful. I just knew the direction it came from, the distance. Like knowing how to grab a ball from the air as it's thrown to you. Whatever the plague destroying humanity was, whatever it had done to me, it seemed to make my body a better predator.
I just hoped whoever I was heading toward was better still.
TWO
“Staff Sergeant, secure that weapon.”
Ethan heard his commanding officer, but didn’t turn to look. His heart was beating too fast in his chest, his blood too loud in his ears to register the command. Numbly, he stepped forward, his legs on autopilot.
“Thompson! What the hell are you doing?”
He kept walking. Step by agonizing step, he got closer to the revenant. It was face down on the ground, partially coagulated blood seeping from an exit wound on the back of its head. It was the right height, the right build, even the hair color was the same. Dark brown, peppered with gray, grown down to the shoulders. Ethan stopped next to the body and reached down to roll it over with a trembling hand.
“Hey, Ethan. You all right man? The fuck are you doing?”
Dimly, he recognized Justin’s voice. His friend’s footsteps crunched in the frost as he came closer. Ethan rolled the body onto its back and leaned down to study its face. After a long instant, his shoulders sagged, and a fog rose around his head as he let out a breath.
“It’s not him.”
“What?”
Ethan looked up. “It’s not him.”
Justin’s face registered understanding. He kneeled down and placed a hand on the big man’s shoulder.
“Of course it’s not him. Your old man’s too tough to end up like that. He’s still out there somewhere. Maybe we’ll find him in Tennessee.”
Ethan nodded slowly, and got back to his feet. Lieutenant Jonas was striding toward the two of them, his face tight with irritation. “You two wanna tell me what the fuck you’re doing? In case you didn’t notice, the platoon is getting ready to move out.”
Ethan pointed at the corpse with his pistol. “Sorry, sir. I thought I recognized this one.”
Jonas planted his hands on his hips and glared. “I don’t give a damn if you thought it was Kate Upton with her tits hanging out. The order was weapons safe. Did you forget what that means in the last two minutes, Staff Sergeant?”
“No si
r.”
“Then secure that goddamn sidearm and get your squad ready to move.” The lieutenant turned and stalked off.
Ethan unscrewed the suppressor from his Beretta M-9 and stowed it on his belt, then replaced the pistol in its holster. He turned to walk back to the bivouac, but Justin put a hand on his arm and stopped him.
“Dude, hold up a second.”
He looked down and watched as Justin shoved the gun all the way into his chest rig until it locked into place. The holster didn’t have a strap, just a thumb paddle that he depressed as he drew his weapon. It was attached to a MOLLE vest, along with spare magazines, a first aid kit, fighting knife, multi-tool, a canteen of water, and a short-handled fire axe.
“You must really be out of it, man. Get any sleep last night before you took the watch?”
Ethan sighed, and shook his head. “Not much. Too damn cold.”
“I hear you.” Justin pulled a small brown packet from his vest. “Here, you can have the coffee pack from my MRE. Might help you wake up.”
Ethan almost said no, but then thought better of it and reached out. “Thanks.”
Walking the short distance back to his two-man tent, he saw SPC Derrick Holland staring contemptuously at him. The short, compact soldier had a smirk on his narrow face, and addressed Ethan with his usual insolence. “Nice work, Sergeant. One shot, one kill. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but that’s a pistol.” He pointed at the Beretta. “And that’s a hand weapon.” He pointed at Ethan’s axe. “We’re supposed to be using blades to kill the Rot. Not guns.”
Ethan brushed past him. “Shut your face, Holland. Is your fire team ready to move out?”
“Will be in about five minutes.”
“You’ve got two. Make it happen.”
Holland chuckled, and started toward Cormier and Hicks. “Let’s go fellas. Staff Sergeant is in a mood today.”
Ethan glared after him, his right hand squeezing into a fist. Holland had been in the Army since before the Outbreak, but unlike most soldiers from that era, he hadn’t climbed very far up the ranks. His insubordinate attitude and disregard for the strictures of discipline had cost his career dearly. Ethan had gotten along well with Holland before being promoted to sergeant. Ever since then, however, Holland had been a resentful little shit. But for all that, Ethan had to admit Holland was a good soldier. He had plenty of combat experience and, despite his low rank, he knew how to keep his head in a fight. Furthermore, his skill with a rifle had earned him the distinction of being the squad’s designated marksman. He was a pain in the ass for sure, but a good man to have around when things got messy.
“You’re going to have to do something about that little bastard,” Justin said, stepping up behind him. “I’ve about had it with him giving you lip all the time.”
Ethan glanced at his friend, and not for the first time, he was taken aback at how much Justin had changed. Two years ago, he had been a gangly, awkward nineteen-year old just emerging from the scalding battlefield of adolescence. Since then, life in the Army had put twenty pounds of muscle on his frame, and long exposure to wind and sun had weathered his once boyish face. Bright, intelligent blue eyes stood out in stark contrast to his tanned skin and blond hair.
“What do you want me to do?” Ethan said. “Article 15? We’re out in the shit, it’s cold as balls, and Fort Bragg is about a hundred miles that way.” He raised a hand and pointed eastward. “I need Holland focused and motivated, same as everybody else. If giving me a hard time keeps his morale up, I’ve got thick enough skin to take it.”
“He’s just going to keep fucking with you,” Justin replied. “I know his type. I dealt with assholes like him all the time in high school. He’ll keep pushing your buttons until you do something about it. You need to put him in his place. If you don’t, then I will.”
Ethan smiled, and stepped closer to the younger man. “Listen, I appreciate your loyalty, but I don’t need you fighting my battles for me. Holland is my responsibility, not yours. If he gets out of hand, I’ll deal with it. But the absolute last thing I need is you starting a fight within the squad. We’re going into combat soon, and God only knows how long we’ll be in Tennessee. We can’t have good order and discipline breaking down less than a week into the deployment. Okay?”
Justin frowned, but nodded. “All right.”
Ethan patted him on the arm before getting to work breaking down his tent. A short time later, his nine-man squad was packed up and ready to move out. As usual, they were the first ones finished.
“Get a move on ladies,” Jonas shouted, striding through the encampment. “Delta’s already got their shit together. What’s taking the rest of you so long?”
Jonas stopped beside Sergeant First Class Damian Ashman and glared pointedly at the tall, powerfully built man. “Maybe I should make Thompson platoon sergeant. At least he can get his people up and moving in a timely manner.”
Ashman took the rebuke in stride, and turned to his men. “Last man on the rails gets the mid-watch and latrine duty for the next five days.”
Lieutenant Jonas stared on in mute satisfaction at the ensuing scramble.
Ethan watched them with a thin smile, and then turned to look at the railroad tracks a short distance away. There, straddling the rails, was a vehicle the likes of which the young soldier had never seen before, at least until a few weeks ago.
The people who arrived with it had called themselves Facilitators. Forty men and twenty-four women, all wearing the same dark coveralls with the words PHOENIX INITIATIVE stenciled on the back. With them came a myriad of blocky, utilitarian machinery. Small generators that could run on almost any kind of fuel, even whiskey. Larger generators filled with water and steam pipes that turned biomass into electricity. Vehicles powered by the same technology that looked more like farm tractors than transport vehicles. And of course, the U-trac. Not a train, mind you. An abbreviation of MK 850 Railway Utility Tractor. U-trac.
The one down the hill from Ethan was squat, square, and roughly the size of a minivan. A small operator’s compartment sat on top, and behind it, a convoy of scaled-down train cars covered close to forty yards of track. The first few cars coupled behind the engine were simple boxes designed to carry ammunition, equipment, and fuel. Behind these sat the passenger carriages, which were smaller than those found on standard trains, and designed with function in mind rather than comfort. Arrow-slit windows lined the armored walls while hatches allowed access to the roof, and there were even trap doors installed in the floor in case something blocked the other exits. Ethan concluded that whoever had built the things had put a great deal of thought into their design.
“Let’s go, gentlemen,” Ethan said, gesturing at his subordinates. “Stow your gear and take a seat.”
The troops in his squad grumbled under their breath, none of them looking forward to another uncomfortable, monotonous day riding the rails. Nevertheless, they did as they were told. It was always this way with soldiers, Ethan had learned. They might bitch and moan, but they did their jobs.
The nine men of Delta Squad lifted their worldly possessions onto their backs and walked down the hill to the U-trac. They stowed their large, modular MOLLE packs in the cargo hold, but held on to their rifles and their smaller, cylindrical assault packs. Go-bags, they called them. If something happened to the engine and the soldiers had to bug out in a hurry, the go-bags were supposed to hold the minimum of equipment they would need to survive. The Army even provided a list of everything they were supposed to have in them, and it was Ethan’s job to make sure they abided by it.
That was the rule, anyway.
Whoever had written the book on how to stock a go-bag had clearly never spent any time out in the shit. Which meant that Ethan flagrantly and unapologetically disregarded that particular set of regulations, as did the other squad leaders. Mostly, their go-bags were full of batteries, toilet paper, a couple of days’ worth of food, and most importantly, ammo. Like all survivors of the Outbreak, they h
ad learned that being armed was far more important than being fed. A soldier could live for a month without food. But without a weapon, it was unlikely any of them would last more than a day.
Once their equipment was secured, the soldiers filed into the first passenger carriage directly behind the command car. They chose this car over the others for two reasons. First, it was in the middle. If any insurgents had set up IED’s along the railway, they would most likely try to blow the engine and the last car in order to trap the U-trac in place. If that happened, being in the middle gave them the best chance of survival. Second, it was far enough away from the engine’s exhaust that they wouldn’t have to breathe in suffocating JP8 fumes. Ethan had once remarked to his men that jet-fuel exhaust smelled like hot vinegar and sorrow. No one had disagreed.
The U-trac, much like an Abrams tank, had multi-fuel capability, giving it the ability to run on a variety of combustible fluids. JP8 jet-fuel was in plentiful supply at Pope AFB—shipped in from vast strategic reserves in Kansas—so that was what they used.
Inside the passenger car, a single, wide bench sat welded to the middle of the floor. Delta Squad filed in and sat down on either side, back to back. There was enough room for twelve people if they packed in, but since First Platoon only consisted of four squads, they each got a carriage to themselves. Ethan took a seat in the middle with Justin on one side, and Sergeant Isaac Cole on the other. Cole—all six-foot-four, two-hundred seventy pounds of him—was the squad’s heavy gunner.
“Man, I’ll be glad when we done with this shit,” Cole said, turning his head Ethan’s way. “I’d rather be fighting the Rot than sittin’ here freezin’ my black ass off.”