Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line

by James N. Cook

“That is wise.”

  “Indeed.”

  Mike leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “How’s Gabe gettin’ along with his daughter?”

  I’d known the question was coming sooner or later. In a small town, word travels fast, and Gabe, being something of a local hero, was the star-du-jour of the rumor mill.

  “Well enough, I guess. It’s been kind of awkward between them, but I think they’re happy to have each other.”

  “Glad to hear it. Gabe is a good man. He deserves a little happiness.”

  “Yes he does.”

  A hand came up farther down the bar. “Hey Mike! How ‘bout another round?”

  “Just a second,” Mike called over his shoulder. He poured me another drink and took my empty. “Duty calls.”

  “Go forth, my friend, and tend the huddled masses.”

  A snort ruffled his moustache as he walked away. The little birds chirped, and Mike fed them booze. Waitresses made their way to and from the service stand next to me, some of them giving me short greetings before hustling away with drinks to serve. The noise at the bar and the pool table grew steadily louder as I sat and nursed drinks. The chill I brought in with me faded and I settled into a kind of dim hypnosis. The stove was warm at my back. The drinks loosened me up and helped me relax. I felt good for a little while.

  But then, as always happens, the noise of the crowd began to sound like the howling of ghouls. When people slapped their hands to the bar while laughing at some joke or another, I flinched. The fire began to smell like the large pits outside of town where the infected were burned to prevent them spreading disease. Drunken revelry became the shouts of injured and dying men. Men who had died at my hands. Men whose faces I’d seen through a rifle scope as they twisted with pain and disbelief and muttered last-minute prayers that expired on their lips as their eyes went blank and they settled into that long, final sleep. Full dark. No light.

  So when a hand slapped down on my back, startling me enough to spill some of my drink, it was all I could do not to break the arm attached to it.

  “Hey, Riordan,” A voice said from behind me. “How come you get to sit over here in the VIP room? What’s a guy gotta do to get this kind of treatment around here?”

  I turned and recognized the guy talking to me. His name was Silas Montgomery, and he was a pain in the ass. Gabe had once tossed him out of the general store for being a little too aggressive flirting with Miranda. He rarely worked, instead making his way through the beds of various single women who took care of him until they wised up and kicked him out. One particular bed he’d occupied had belonged to a married woman, whose husband had taken exception to Silas violating the sanctity of their marital union. He’d confronted Silas in the town square, and before Sheriff Elliott could get there to stop it, Silas had just about beat the ass clean off him.

  I pointed a finger at Mike Stall. “Ask him. He’s the one told me I could sit here.”

  Silas stepped closer so he was leaning over me. He was tall, broad through the shoulders, and had curly black hair and light blue eyes. His forearms were thick and ropy and he probably tipped the scales at about two-twenty—thirty pounds heavier than me and a couple of inches taller. His success with women had a lot to do with his appearance, but that particular shine always faded once his victims saw the selfishness beneath the veneer.

  He pointed at my drink. “I notice you’re drinking alone.”

  “Yes. And I’d like to keep it that way.”

  He sat down in the stool next to mine. “Come on, man. Nobody should drink alone.”

  “Hey,” Mike called out. “That’s reserved seating, Montgomery.”

  “Come on, Mike. I drink here all the time.”

  The old cowboy started to walk over, but I stopped him with an upraised hand. “It’s all right, Mike.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. Let him be.”

  Mike glared, but walked away.

  “That was nice of you, man. Really.” He held out a hand. “Name’s Silas.”

  I kept my hands around my drink. “I know who you are.”

  His lips peeled back with all the warmth of stainless steel. “Yeah, I do have something of a reputation.”

  “Listen, Silas. No disrespect to you, but I’m not in the mood for conversation. If you don’t mind, I’d like to be alone.”

  The smile sharpened. I let out a sigh because I knew where this was headed. Some people never learn to distinguish kindness from weakness, or patience from fear. It was the fourth time in the last couple of months someone had decided to test me. I guess that’s what happens when a man becomes wealthy, well known, and influential. People get jealous.

  “Did Allison ever tell you we dated in high school?”

  “Allison has never mentioned you at all.”

  He leaned closer. “Then she didn’t tell you why I broke up with her.”

  “No. Or about any of the other guys she dated before she met me.”

  “And why do you think that is?”

  “Because they, much like you, are of no consequence to her. Or to me.”

  “Oooh. Getting touchy, are we? I can understand. I mean, look at me, and look at you. What guy in your position wouldn’t feel a little threatened?”

  I laughed quietly. “Silas, you’re no threat to me. Or to my marriage. Now do yourself a favor and fuck off before something bad happens to you.”

  The blue eyes took on a note of cruelty. He leaned in so close I could smell the liquor on his breath. “She wouldn’t suck my dick. That’s why I dumped her. She’d let me fuck her, but wouldn’t give me a blowjob. What kind of a bitch thinks a man’s dick is good enough for her pussy, but not her mouth?”

  Silas must have seen the coldness in my gaze, because when I turned to look at him, the smile faltered and he leaned away.

  “Listen carefully, you little flea. You need to get out of my sight, and you need to do it now.”

  His face closed to within inches of mine. “What happens if I don’t?”

  He made it easy for me. Big, cocky guys always think they can intimidate people. Except some people are very difficult to intimidate, especially when they have seen and done the things I have. So when I slid off my stool, grabbed him around the throat with both hands, and slammed him backwards hard enough to rattle the floorboards, it was no wonder he was surprised.

  While Silas struggled to draw a breath and clear the stars from his vision, I picked up his stool and calmly put it back in its place.

  “Goddammit, Montgomery!” Mike stormed toward us holding a truncheon. “I told you-”

  I held up a hand. “It’s okay, Mike. I got this.”

  The old cowboy’s eyes were bright with anger. “Fine. But take it outside. There’s kids around.”

  “I know. I apologize for the disturbance.”

  Mike let out a long breath. “Hell, I know it ain’t your fault. That little shit causes trouble everywhere he goes. Go on back to your drink and I’ll send for the sheriff.”

  “Won’t be necessary.” I hauled Silas to his feet, wrenched an arm behind his back, clamped on a wristlock, and began walking him to the door. “Might want to notify the clinic, though.”

  “Ah hell. Robbie!” Mike called out to one of his kitchen staff. “Get in here. I need you to run a message.”

  Every eye in attendance followed us as I led Silas Montgomery outside. A hush fell over the tavern as people stopped eating or talking or shooting pool or whatever they were doing. I ignored them. I used Silas’ face to push the door open, walked him down the stairs, and tossed him face-first to the ground.

  The cold must have revived him, because he was on his feet in seconds. When he turned to face me, the predatory smile had returned. “That was good. You’re quicker than I thought. Caught me by surprise.”

  I slipped off my jacket and hung it over a rail. Then I set my feet and waited, hands at my sides. People began to emerge from the tavern and congregate on the wide porch, eyes wide with ant
icipation. I ignored them.

  Silas held his hands out at his sides and began walking slowly toward me. “Listen, Riordan. We got off on the wrong foot. How about we go back inside and-”

  The kick came at my groin. If it had landed, it may well have been the end of the fight. But it did not. I saw it coming, sidestepped, caught his leg, stiff-armed him back a few steps, and kicked his other leg out from under him. He made a pained shout as the small of his back met the corner of the curb.

  I could have finished it right there. A stomp to the balls would have gotten the job done. Or, if I really wanted to hurt him, I could have heel-hooked him and wrenched his knee out of socket. Hard to fight when your lower leg is on backward, all the tendons and ligaments popped like old rubber bands. But I was not looking for a quick victory. I did not care if somebody sent for the sheriff and I ended up in jail. My blood was up. The Irish devil in me was spoiling for violence. The little shit-worm on the ground in front of me had insulted my wife, and it was high time he learned a lesson in humility.

  Silas struggled to his feet and looked at me with venom in his eyes. The smile was gone. The beast behind the bluster had finally revealed itself, fangs and all. I took an open-handed stance and circled left toward his weak side. Montgomery switched to southpaw and tried to angle in on my right. He faked a jab, then charged in with a straight left that would have taken my head off if I’d stood still for it.

  The punch went over my head as I slipped it, shuffled left, and popped him in the ribs with a left-right combo. Silas grunted and tried to counter by clinching. I slipped his arms, caught him in a head-and-arm tie-up, and sent him flipping over my hip. It was a good throw. His legs pointed straight skyward at the apex and I landed solidly on top of him. Whatever air was left in his lungs came out in a rush.

  Not knowing how good his ground game was, or if he was armed or not, I wasted no time transitioning to side control. Popped the ribs with a couple of hard knees. Pushed the head sideways with the near side shoulder, hip switched, and transitioned to the full-mount. Left, right, left, and the arms covered the face. Gripped the wrist. Pushed the arm across the throat.

  Now he knew he was in trouble. If he had known what he was doing, he would have bucked upward with his hips, forcing me to use my free arm to keep from getting reversed. It would not have improved his position, but it would have kept me from hitting him. But he did not know what he was doing. Silas was a savvy brawler on his feet, but like most street toughs, he was helpless from his back.

  The crowd on the porch had gotten into the spirit of the event. Silas Montgomery was not well liked. Voices urged me on with such pleasantries as, fuck him up Riordan, beat his ass, and stomp a hole in that motherfucker. I looked at them, and then down at the desperation in Silas’ eyes, and in a flash, the anger went out of me.

  I did not want to be here anymore, rolling in the dirt with this viscous imbecile. If Allison had been there, she would have been screaming at me to stop. So instead of smashing Silas Montgomery’s face into hamburger, I let him roll over, hooked in with my legs, and applied a choke hold. Counted backwards from ten. At three, he went limp. I held on a couple of seconds longer than I needed to, then released and got to my feet. Silas did not move. I rolled him over on his side and vigorously rubbed my knuckles into his chest. The motion revived him enough to get him breathing again.

  I left him lying in the snow-dusted street, slipped my jacket on, and walked home.

  FIVE

  At first glance, Parabellum looked like any other far flung wilderness settlement. A double-layered wooden palisade roughly a quarter mile in diameter ringed the outer perimeter, deep berms had been dug around the defenses, and the interior of the fort was accessible only via a heavy-duty lifting platform connected to a complex system of ropes, gears, swing arms, and pulleys. No gates, just the lift. Anyone who wanted in had to hail the guards. If the guards were in a good mood, and someone had something to trade, they might let them in. Or, if they deemed them sufficiently weak, open fire and loot the corpses.

  Heinrich heard Carter key his radio. “All stations, report.”

  A moment passed, then Carter said, “Copy. Stay alert.” He turned to his chief. “All clear, boss. No infected in sight.”

  “Good.”

  Heinrich glanced over his shoulder at his raiders. Each man carried a crossbow and a plentitude of bolts purchased on their way out of Kansas with trade from Heinrich’s own personal treasury. Many of those bolts now resided in the skulls of neutralized infected. The crossbows had proven invaluable on the long trek from Kansas to Northern Arkansas. Heinrich’s men knew how to travel quietly, but one gunshot could draw every infected for miles. Consequently, they only used firearms against living assailants, or if there were too many infected to deal with by other means. Luckily, they had run into no resistance from the living, federal or otherwise, and had made minimal contact with the undead. The trick, as Heinrich once explained to Carter, was to stick to high ground.

  “To people in our line of work, this might sound counterintuitive”, he had said. “But remember, ghouls tend to follow the path of least resistance. They stick to valleys and hollows and low-lying areas. They’ll climb a mountain to get to your ass if they hear you, but otherwise, they’re lazy.”

  “What about feds?” Carter asked. “Skyline yourself, makes it easy to spot you.”

  “So? You ever seen a caravan take the low road? Hell no. They use the same methods I do. That’s why we do our damnedest to look like traders when we travel. Don’t give them an excuse, the feds leave you alone. You think they like fighting? Shit. I know how soldiers think. They’re even lazier than the ghouls.”

  Heinrich raised his hand as they came within a hundred yards of the lift. The area around the wall was bare of trees and littered with the bones of infected left to rot where they were killed. The last fifty yards approaching the berm was a maze of ghoul-trippers fashioned from sticks, vines, logs, cables, and anything else the people behind the wall could find to do the job. The scattering of bones grew much thicker closer to the perimeter. Some of the corpses were still fresh.

  Heinrich resisted the instinct to wrinkle his nose. The constant reek of death in the air was something for which Parabellum was well known. Most outlaws who frequented the place thought the fierce people encamped within were merely too lazy to clean up their own mess, but Heinrich knew better. They left the corpses in the field because nothing sends a clearer message than the smell of rotting flesh. And that message was simple:

  Leave. Get you gone.

  Heinrich did not leave. He urged his horse forward. Carter, Maru, and a few other men followed. They rode single file along a narrow path through the ghoul-trippers leading to the lift. When they were within twenty yards—point-blank range for a capable marksman—an armored head appeared over the wall and aimed an RPK machine gun at Heinrich’s party.

  “The hell you want?”

  “Name’s Heinrich, chief of the Storm Road Tribe. I’m known here.”

  “Good for you. Answer the question.”

  “I’m here to trade. Ask the Khan. He’ll vouch for me.”

  A silence. “Stay where you are. Gotta check you out.”

  The head and the RPK did not move, but Heinrich knew a runner was being sent to the registry. He sat patiently on his horse, breathing in the miasma of stinking meat and thinking how enjoyable it would be to throw the leader of this place into a pit of flaming ghouls. A few minutes passed before the armored head yelled again.

  “Okay, we’re sending down the lift. Tell your men to advance along the path.”

  Heinrich nodded to Maru, who turned his mount and headed back where the others waited. The cracking of whips split the air, followed by horses snorting and nickering in protest. Gears turned and thick ropes moved through pulleys as the two cranes supporting the platform creaked and groaned and the large wooden rectangle made its slow way to ground level.

  The platform was large enough to accommodate
six loaded wagons. Heinrich knew this because he had seen it happen. He also knew the mechanism operating it was capable of lifting far more than just wagons and livestock. One needed look no further than the hijacked military vehicles within the encampment for proof of that. Heinrich waited until the screeching and rattling of the lift ceased before ordering his men to dismount and board the platform.

  Another shout, more cracking whips, and up they went. At the top, they led their horses down a steep ramp and emerged into the central square. In the center of the square was a tall platform topped by a torture rack and a gallows. Crows and buzzards crawled across its surface, occasionally dipping their heads to snap up dispersed bits of bloody meat.

  “Must have been an execution recently,” Carter said.

  Heinrich grunted and surveyed the interior of Parabellum, eyes scanning rooftops and windows and doorways. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. Same muddy streets, same bustle of hard-looking men and women crowding the square, same hum of voices bartering and arguing and cursing and laughing, same wretched slaves scurrying from one place to another, same haphazard, low-slung buildings built of wood cut from the surrounding forest, and above it all, the same palpable sense of danger in the air. Lantern light burned through shuttered, glassless windows, tired-looking whores stood on the porches and balconies offering their wares to passersby, and peddlers of every stripe pushed carts along the edges of buildings where the mud was shallowest. Heinrich smelled shit and blood and fire and cooking food. Discordant hums of despair and revelry competed for dominance in the permeating atmosphere of smoke and cold.

  All was as it should be.

  A man in a guard shack near the end of the entrance ramp emerged and approached Heinrich. When he drew close, the two men exchanged a nod of greeting.

  “Wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” the man said. He was a giant, standing nearly seven feet tall and easily weighing close to four hundred pounds. His face was broad and cruel, a mohawk of bright red hair streaked his scalp, and a dark orange beard hung in braids down to his chest. His voice sounded like wagon wheels crunching over old bones, and he was dressed in pre-Outbreak biker attire of black leather, metal studs, hidden weapons, and a pair of tanker’s boots that had stomped enough people to death to fill a graveyard.