Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line

by James N. Cook

  My inner grumblings were interrupted when a multi-fuel generator, donated by the Phoenix Initiative, coughed to life across the street behind the church. It spent most of its time at the towns’ only schoolhouse, but on Sundays, it was used to power the church’s lights and the preacher’s PA system. The singing of many voices stopped, and the unnaturally loud tones of Reverend Griffin began to reverberate through the walls. Why the good reverend needed a microphone, amplifier, and two large speakers in such a small church was beyond me. If a mouse squeaked under the altar, you could hear it in the back pews. My only assumption was he believed his sermon would have more impact, and thus better assure the ultimate destination of the souls of his flock, if it reached the intended recipients with enough volume to rattle their teeth.

  I shuffled my feet for better purchase on the roof shingles, put a different part of my butt on the crown of the house, and turned my head to stare back toward the south side of town. My other house lay in that direction, the one I shared with my wife and son.

  Allison Laroux Riordan was not home that morning, but Miranda Grove was there with little Gabriel while my wife was busy tending the sick and injured at the clinic. I’d told Miranda I needed to run some errands and left her with the baby. She had offered no argument, as she was too busy cooing over the little guy. She did that a lot.

  I thought about the mission I had participated in over the summer, the one that had eliminated one threat to the Union and galvanized another. I thought about my part in it, and how hard it was to listen to people talk about how much better things were now that the Alliance was no longer the Sword of Damocles dangling over our heads. I thought about the people who argued with me when I worked at the store, how they moaned at the slightest sense of disadvantage in a trade, and how I often wished I could show them the demons in my head, shake them by their ears, and scream at them to look at what they made me give.

  But I couldn’t. Officially, the mission in Illinois never happened. I did not travel to Alliance territory with Gabriel Garrett, Caleb Hicks, and Lincoln Great Hawk, and we did not meet up with a special ops group codenamed Task Force Falcon. We did not slaughter a group of marauders, capture their leader, and discover a secret initiative by the Alliance to secure their supply routes while they launched an offensive against the Union. We never travelled to the Alliance’s capital city, never met with an intelligence asset who happened to be enemy nation’s vice president, and never carried out an assassination mission against said nation’s highest officials. I was not in a helicopter crash, I did not spend days alternating between running from and ambushing fanatical Alliance troops led by a murdering psychopath named General Randolph Samson, and I most certainly had not watched through a rifle scope while Gabriel Garret put a bullet through the general’s head.

  Nope. Didn’t happen.

  Officially.

  Unofficially, I’d just about had my fill of warfare for one year. Maybe next year I might take a mission or two, but not now. I had businesses to run, a son to raise, a wife to love, and 3000 watts of solar panels, associated control equipment, and sealed, deep-cycle batteries to install on my house. More than enough to power my eight-cubic-foot refrigerator, a 10-gallon water heater, furnace, and other household appliances.

  The panels had not come cheap. In fact, it would not be inaccurate to say I spent a small fortune on them. The caravan leader I traded for them had been hauling the system around for months, unable to find a buyer who could pay what it was worth. I gave him the asking price, no haggling. The man told me I should be canonized by whatever was left of the Catholic Church. I told him if he found any more solar equipment to swing by Hollow Rock and look me up.

  Allison had balked at the expense, initially, but calmed when I told her how much power the system could generate.

  “So … we could have a refrigerator again?” she said.

  “Yes. And an icemaker, and hot water, and working fans, and a lot of other conveniences we’ve been doing without.”

  “And you haven’t installed it yet … why?”

  “It’s on my list.”

  “Move it to the top.”

  “Aye, aye, captain.”

  That was a week ago. Time to stop procrastinating. I climbed down through the roof hatch, closed it, locked up the house, and headed toward home.

  *****

  At the North Gate, Caleb Hicks was just getting off watch. He spotted me, waved, yelled at me to hold up, and when he had finished speaking with the oncoming guards, jogged over to where I waited.

  “Man, you’re never going to believe what happened this morning,” he said.

  I went immediately on alert. Anything momentous enough to stir Caleb Hicks from his usual silence into a state of excitement was cause for worry. “What happened?”

  “I might be wrong, but I think Gabriel has a daughter. And I think she just came into town this morning.”

  I blinked. Twice. Then I asked him to repeat himself to make sure I had heard him right. He did, and it was the same as before. I said, “But Gabe doesn’t have any kids.”

  “That’s what I thought too. But when she came through, she showed me a picture of Gabe and said he was her father.”

  “You’re sure it was him in the picture?”

  “Yep. He was a lot younger, but it was definitely him.”

  I felt a strange tingling in my hands and along the edges of my face. My pulse picked up, and there was a weight in my stomach that had not been there before. “What did she look like?”

  “She looked like Gabe, if he was a fourteen-year-old girl. Spittin’ image. Even had the same eyes.”

  I did the math in my head, counting from the year Gabe had told me he had gotten divorced. It added up.

  “Holy shit on a stick.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Where is she now? Did she give a name?”

  “Not sure, and Sabrina. Got here early, just after seven-hundred hours. Heard her ask one of the guards where to find the market. Probably stopped for something to eat. Might want to start there.”

  “I will. How about a description?”

  He gave me one. I doubted there would be too many tall, black haired, gray-eyed girls running around in an old Army field jacket with a rucksack, Marlin rifle, and salvaging tools.

  “Thanks for the heads up.”

  “No problem.” I started to run toward the market, but stopped when Caleb called out to me.

  “Hey!” he said.

  “What?”

  “Let me know how it goes, will you?”

  “Next time I see you.”

  He gave me a two-fingered salute. I jogged toward the market.

  I talked to four different food venders, the last being Kari Cooper at Cooper’s Country Kitchen. She said a girl had come through fitting the description I gave her not long after seven that morning, which meant she had passed through just over two hours ago.

  “Any idea where she went from here?”

  “Why do you ask?” Kari said. “She in some kind of trouble?”

  “No, nothing like that. I just want to talk to her is all.”

  “Well, she asked if there was a place around here she could stay, and I recommended Elena’s.”

  “Why Elena’s? Why not somewhere less expensive?”

  “She had some pretty good trade on her. Tried to pay for her breakfast with a thirty-ought-six round. I figured she could afford to stay somewhere nice.”

  I processed that. A dozen questions flew circles in my head, but there would be no answering them until I found her.

  “Do you think she went there? To Elena’s, I mean.”

  “I think so.”

  I reached in a pocket, pulled out a little pouch of instant coffee, and slid it across the counter. “Thanks for the info.”

  The packet disappeared. “Anytime, Mr. Riordan.”

  I covered the distance to Elena’s in just over two minutes. Outside the entrance, I stopped to catch my breath, wipe sweat from
my brow, and compose myself. Once I felt centered again, I rang the doorbell. A few seconds later, Elena answered.

  “Well hello, Eric. What can I do for you?”

  “There may be someone staying here I’d like to speak with. She says her name is Sabrina Garrett. She’s about five-foot-ten, black-”

  “I know who you’re talking about,” Elena interrupted. “Normally I don’t give out information about guests, but knowing how close you and Gabe are, I’ll make an exception. Come on in, but keep your voice down.”

  I followed the little woman inside. She led me through the lobby, down a hallway to our right, and into her office. The room faced a back garden with a large French door which, during the spring, offered a spectacular view of flower beds, hedges, large green plants I could not identify, towering oak trees, and a small, gravity-fed fountain. Now, in late autumn, the garden was mostly brown.

  “What business do you think this girl has with Gabriel?”

  I sat down in one of the plush leather chairs in front of her desk. Elena did business with Gabe and me on a regular basis, and anything that might affect us could potentially affect her. “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s why I need to speak with her. Don’t want Gabe getting blindsided. By the way, is she still here?”

  “Yes. She just finished bathing a little while ago. Her clothes are being laundered as we speak, and judging by how they smelled, I’d say she’s been on the road for quite some time.”

  “She come here alone?”

  “Near as I could tell, yes.”

  I wrapped my fingers around my chin and pondered. What were the odds that Gabriel had a daughter he never knew about who survived the Outbreak despite the fact she would have been no older than eleven at the time and somehow managed to stay alive, searched for her father, found out where he lives, and came all the way here to see him? Not very strong, in my opinion. But then again, the odds of anyone surviving the Outbreak were pretty slim. And if the Blackmire incident had taught us anything, it was Gabe’s name was known far and wide, and that was not necessarily a good thing. The girl could have heard about him from any number of people between here and Colorado. Hell, there were probably people in the Nevada outposts who had heard of him. Maybe the chances weren’t so slim after all.

  “Is there any chance you could ask her to meet me in the lobby?”

  “I can ask. But I’ll warn you, she’s a suspicious soul. Expect her to be armed.”

  “Duly noted.”

  Elena stood up from her chair. “Go wait in the lobby. I’ll send her down.”

  “What are you going to tell her?”

  “Your name, affiliation, and the fact that you have information about her father.”

  I nodded. “That should do it.”

  Elena went upstairs while I waited in the lobby. The only weapon I carried was a nine-millimeter Beretta pistol, which I moved from my hip to the small of my back and concealed beneath my shirt. Better not to appear threatening.

  A minute or two later, Sabrina walked down the stairs to meet me. Her pace was quick and graceful with just a slight hint of teenage awkwardness. She wore an ankle length terry-cloth robe and slippers, both provided by the inn. Her hair was still wet from her bath, long and dark black just like Gabriel’s. By the angles of her hands as she held them in her pockets, I could tell she was carrying a pair of knives up her sleeves. Cautious indeed. Finally, my eyes moved to her face.

  I could not speak for several seconds. I could only stare.

  Caleb had not been kidding. If Gabe had been born female, I was pretty sure I was looking at his visage at age fourteen. The lines of the girl’s face were hauntingly similar, albeit softened and distinctly feminine. She was not pretty, but neither was she ugly. The mouth was wide, the lips thin, the cheekbones high and sharp, the jaw broad and softly curved. A familiar shallow line bisected her chin. The resemblance alone would have been enough to convince me, but what really struck me were the eyes. Slightly almond shaped, set wide apart, deeply sunken, and the exact same wolf-gray as Gabriel’s.

  No paternity test necessary. This girl was, without a doubt, Gabriel’s kid.

  “Hello,” I said with a slight smile, keeping my hands where she could see them. “I’m Eric Riordan.”

  She stared at me and did not move. We were about ten feet from each other, but I had the feeling she could cross that distance very quickly if I gave her reason to.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “I understand you’re looking for Gabriel Garrett.”

  No response. I waited a few seconds, but she did not budge.

  “I can tell by looking at you that what you say is true. You’re his daughter.”

  She shifted her head slightly, the eyes blazing to life. “So you know him?”

  “Yes. He’s my business partner and a very close friend.”

  She hesitated, chewed her lip for a moment, and said, “Do I really look like him?”

  “Yes.”

  Another pause. “I only have one picture of him, but I think I do too.”

  I gave a nod. “Would you like to talk in the café? They have tea and instant coffee. My treat.”

  She looked me over, saw no weapons, and relaxed slightly. “Sure.”

  “You think you could take your hands off the knives while we talk? Just to be polite?”

  I smiled while I said it. Sabrina’s face told me she was reassessing me.

  “Okay,” she said. Her hands came out of the pockets, but the knives stayed. I could see their weight sagging the fabric. The girl indicated for me to lead the way. I did, although I kept my ears sharp for sounds of sudden movement.

  We crossed to the back of the inn and sat down at one of the tables in the small dining area. One of Elena’s employees, a girl in her early twenties named Darlene, came out in her black-and-white waitress uniform.

  “Hello ma’am. Mr. Riordan. What can I get for you?”

  I looked at Sabrina. “You hungry?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither. Darlene, do you still have any of that tea I sold you?”

  “Only the Lipton stuff, sir. I’m afraid the rest sold out last week.”

  I breathed a small sigh, genuinely regretful. “Oh well. Lipton it is, then. Make it two, please.”

  “Right away.” Darlene disappeared into the kitchen.

  Sabrina watched her go, looked back at me, and said, “They really have tea here?”

  “They better. I’ll give Elena an earful if they don’t.”

  “Where did they get it?”

  “From me.”

  Sabrina tilted her head again. The gesture reminded me so much of her father I almost looked away. “And where did you get it?”

  “It’s a little early to be handing over the secrets of where I source my salvage, don’t you think?”

  She smirked, again reminding me of Gabriel. Same impishness, same dark humor. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

  “I can’t, but hopefully at least now you know I’m not stupid.”

  “No. I didn’t figure you were. Some people you can tell, you know? It’s in the eyes.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.”

  She leaned forward a little, looking at me intensely. “You have nice eyes. Dark blue. I like that. You’re a good looking guy, Eric Riordan.”

  “I’m also happily married,” I said, giving her a level stare. “And you’re my best friend’s daughter. I’m afraid you’ll have to bark up another tree.”

  The heat of her smile increased by about a hundred degrees. “I don’t care if you’re married. Never stopped me before. Maybe you’ve heard about Traveler women? We don’t have hang-ups and inhibitions like townie women. We see something we want, we take it. Including men. Or women. Or both.”

  I noticed one of her hands was invisible beneath the table and repositioned my feet. If she attacked, I would spring backwards, push the table over, and hope there was nothing to stop me from rolling into a fighting stance. “One small
problem,” I said.

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re not a woman. And I’m not idiot enough to buy into your slutty little act. So knock it off. I’m not a kid, and I’m not apt to be led around by my dick.”

  The lascivious smile left as quickly as it came. The hand reappeared, and I relaxed. “I’m impressed.”

  I wanted to say, don’t flatter yourself, but figured that would get us off on the wrong foot. Instead, I said, “What is it you want from Gabriel?”

  The measured stare again. “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because he’s my friend, I’m buying you an exorbitantly expensive cup of tea, and I asked you nicely.”

  Darlene came out of the kitchen bearing two steaming cups on little saucers. The teabags were still in them, the aroma sharp and acrid to my post-Outbreak nose. When one goes long enough without smelling the comforts of the old world, they tend to stand out.

  Sabrina looked down at her cup. “Holy shit that smells good.”

  “I concur.”

  “Sugar, Mr. Riordan?”

  I looked at the waitress. “Brought my own. But thanks anyway.”

  Darlene smiled and gave a little curtsy before leaving. When I returned my attention to Sabrina she was staring at me hungrily. “You have sugar?”

  “Yes.”

  “I haven’t had sugar in two years. Too valuable to eat.”

  “You know, I often wonder about that. Most people say the same thing, it’s worth too much to actually use. But if no one consumes it anymore, what makes it so valuable?” I reached into a shirt pocket, removed four little packets—equivalent to a week’s wage for a farm worker—and slid two across the table. “Wait until the tea finishes steeping. It’ll taste better.”