Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line

by James N. Cook

  My gift was a framed four-by-eight photo of Sabrina and I standing on a hillside overlooking the town square, the landscape around us covered in snow. We were backlit by a dark pewter sky and the bare branches of oak trees in winter, both of us laughing at some joke I had made. I remembered Elizabeth taking the picture with her big digital camera, but never thought I would see it in print. Where she’d found the ink and photographic paper, I could only guess. Such things are rare and very expensive. When I looked at the picture, something tightened in my chest and I had to clear my throat before I could speak.

  “This is perfect. Thank you.”

  Elizabeth’s hand covered mine. Her brown eyes were warm and reflected the golden light of candles on the table. “You’re welcome.”

  Sabrina leaned over. “Can I see?”

  I showed it to her and felt warm inside when my daughter’s rare smile appeared. She asked if she could have a copy, and Elizabeth said yes.

  Now it was mid-January, two months to the day from when Sabrina came into my life, and I had learned a few things about her in that time. Namely, despite the fact she never knew me growing up, we had several personality traits in common. For starters, she had a temper. Not a hot, boiling one that could get her into trouble, but the kind of low, simmering anger that can last for days when roused. Something I know a thing or two about.

  She did not talk much. When she did, she said exactly what was on her mind and did not mince words. If she thought a question was stupid, or the answer should be obvious—even when it was not—she simply ignored the questioner. She was not a trusting soul. Her gray eyes, so much like mine, constantly scanned her surroundings, checking rooftops and windows, gauging distances, looking for exits and escape routes, assessing whether or not people were armed and with what.

  Despite a bit of physical awkwardness, she did not have the demeanor of a child. She spoke and acted like a grown woman, and for reasons I cannot put easily into words, this pained me every time I noticed it. Which is saying something because, at this point in my life, not many things affect me anymore.

  So I sat and listened to the silence in the store in the early morning hours and wished it was six o’ clock so I could go home. I wanted to talk to Sabrina. I wanted to explain why I was reluctant to talk about the future just yet. I wanted to tell her I had some plans in the works that might interest her, but I needed to make sure of a few things beforehand. The first of them being a caravan due to arrive sometime that afternoon, and a man named Spike.

  *****

  It did not take a great deal of imagination to figure out where he got his name.

  A morningstar mace, forged from what appeared to be a tangle of sharpened railroad spikes, hung from a loop on his belt. It had an ironwood handle and a trailer hitch for a pommel. He wore leather armor riddled with sharp metal studs on the shoulder pauldrons, gloves, elbows, shins, toes, and the bottoms of his forearms. The helmet he carried under his arm looked like something from ancient Greece, only instead of a horse-hair crest on the crown, he had welded a short, wickedly sharp spear point. There were dark brown stains on the spear that looked like rust until I realized it was made of stainless steel.

  “Good to see you alive, Garrett,” he said as he walked in.

  I offered him a hand and he shook it. “Same to you. Run into any trouble on the way in?”

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

  “Come on back. I’ll make us some tea.”

  “On the house?”

  “Of course.”

  Spike smiled and motioned for me to lead the way. “Just making sure. Stuff is pricey these days.”

  I turned the sign on the door to the side that said CLOSED, put the hands on the little red clock to indicate the store would reopen in half an hour, and went into the back room.

  Spike pointed at a small refrigerator in the corner. “That’s new.”

  “Yep. Put it in a few months ago. Runs on twelve-volt. Found an old Windstream trailer about twenty miles south of town. Had a hundred-sixty watt solar rig on the roof, this fridge, and a ten-gallon water heater. Stripped them and sold the trailer at auction. Young couple moved here from Michigan bought it. You should see what they did with it.”

  “I hear Windstreams are popular. Easy to ghoul-proof.”

  “Yep. Folks that bought it from me riveted sheet metal over the windows, installed escape hatches on the floor and roof, put in a composting toilet, and ripped out the dining table and benches and built a rocket stove. Even rigged a manual pump to the water tank. There’s a little plastic thing you step on and water comes out of the kitchen faucet.”

  “Sounds like a nice setup.”

  “A little cramped, but yeah. I’ve seen a hell of a lot worse.”

  I cut the power to the fridge and plugged an electric kettle into an inverter. The deep-cycle battery connected to the solar panel was a wonderful convenience, but it only had enough juice to power one appliance at a time. When I had the tea steeping in cups, I unplugged the kettle and diverted power back to the fridge.

  Spike accepted his cup and sipped it carefully. At five-foot-eight and two-hundred solid pounds, he looked about as delicate as a battle-scarred pit bull. Fought like one too.

  “You got it pretty good here, Garrett.”

  “That I do.”

  “Maybe one day I can retire some place like this.”

  “I doubt you’ll live long enough.”

  Spike grinned. “Fuck you, jarhead.”

  “Sorry, you’re not pretty enough. And I figured you were here for business, not pleasure.”

  The grin faded. He put on his business face. “That I am.”

  “What did you bring me?”

  “Salt. And lots of it. Just like you asked.”

  I stared at him flatly. “I asked for delivery two months ago.”

  “Yeah. About that.” He put down his cup and crossed his hands on the table. “We lost that shipment.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “I thought you hired Blackthorns to guard it.”

  “I did. Eight of ‘em. And five other merc types, and an armored wagon, and a goddamn heavy machine gun. It wasn’t enough. Found their remains in central Kansas.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Don’t think he was around that day.”

  Neither of us spoke for a few seconds. Eight Blackthorns, I thought, shaking my head.

  The Blackthorn Security Company had been in business for only a year or so, but had already garnered a reputation as the best mercenary outfit around. They were fierce, fearless, highly trained, and when they signed a contract, they pinned their lives to it. They had armor, weapons, explosives, night vision equipment, the works. Pound for pound, the rival of any pre-Outbreak security outfit. Maybe better. I had heard that Tyrel Jennings, the company’s founder, who happened to be an ex-Navy SEAL, utilized a cadre of special warfare operators from every branch of the Armed Services to train his men.

  “Must have been a hell of a fight,” I said.

  “Lots of bullet casings. Lot of dried blood. Some of the bodies were marauders. My people didn’t go down easy.”

  “That’s something, I guess.”

  Spike tapped his thumbs against his mug. “Yeah.”

  “Can you absorb the loss?”

  “Most of it. Shipment was insured. FTIC.”

  The acronym stood for Federal Trade Insurance Commission, a public-private venture established to keep trade, the lifeblood of the new barter economy, flowing. Any trade going in or out of Colorado Springs and the surrounding communities had to be insured. If it was not, caravan operators faced steep tariffs that were usually more than the FTIC’s insurance premiums. The commission hired agents in most of the large settlements in the new Union—including Hollow Rock—which allowed contracts to be purchased by just about anyone. In the event of a loss, the commission paid out in the various commodities the government always seemed to have in ample quantities—fuel, bulle
ts, and medical supplies.

  “Won’t get back what I spent on security,” Spike went on, “but I don’t really care about that. I lost some good people, Gabe. People with families. There were women and children in that caravan. We never found the bodies. I don’t have to tell you what that means.”

  I would have liked to tell Spike it meant there was still hope, but we both knew better. Even if they survived the attack, the captured traders faced a fate worse than death. Few people rescued from marauders lasted very long. Most committed suicide. And those who had the strength to go on had to live with the memories of what happened while in captivity every day of their lives. I stared at my hands and breathed out slowly.

  “Any clue who did it?”

  “Yeah. Guy in my outfit, ex-Army fella, recognized the symbol the raiders drew on their weapons. Skull with crossed lightning bolts beneath. Said they call themselves the Storm Road Tribe. If I ever find them, they’ll be the fucking Storm Road Corpses.”

  “You report it?”

  Spike nodded. “When I went looking for them, I had to bring along a rep from the FTIC. Bastards wanted verification. Tried telling the rep my people wouldn’t have hijacked me, not with the Blackthorns around. Guy said I wasn’t the first person to say that. Shit world we live in, huh?”

  “Most of it, yeah.”

  I finished my tea and let Spike brood quietly for a while. The little refrigerator hummed comfortably in the corner, reminding me of better days when life seemed bright and shining and hopeful. Sometimes I would come in the back room after closing the shop and sit with my eyes closed and listen to the refrigerator hum and imagine I was back in the house my father built, dozing on the couch and waiting for dad’s truck to crunch the gravel in the driveway. Time was, I found the hum of appliances annoying. Now it sounds like home.

  “Well, guess we better get down to business.” Spike pushed his cup away.

  “Yeah. Your crew through the gate yet?”

  “Going through inspection. Be a few hours.”

  “In that case, I’ll meet you at the caravan district tomorrow morning.”

  Spike raised an eyebrow. “You can’t take possession today? Costs trade to stay overnight, and I got customers in other towns waiting on me.”

  “Take the expense out of my shipment.”

  Spike dipped his head. “Fair enough.” He stood up and yawned expansively, arms stretched behind him, leather armor creaking from the strain. “Christ, if I’m honest, a hot meal, a few drinks, and a night behind a well-guarded wall sounds like just what the fucking doctor ordered.”

  He started to walk toward the door, then stopped and snapped his fingers. “Shit, almost forgot. I got something for you.”

  “What?”

  He stepped closer, reached under the armor on his right forearm, and removed a small plastic tube. “Letter from Mr. Hadrian Flint, director of operations for the Blackthorn Security Company. I can vouch for its authenticity.”

  I reached for it. “He deliver it in person?”

  “Yep. Said it’s for your eyes only.”

  “You didn’t read it?”

  “Check the seal.”

  I did. It was intact, the signet of the Blackthorn Company pressed into red wax. No way Spike could have opened it and resealed it, not without a signet ring. And the Blackthorns guarded them jealously.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll consider the tea my tip.”

  He left through the back door. I locked it behind him, sat down, and opened the tube. The letter was brief and to the point. It could not have come at a better time.

  I rolled the letter up, put it back in its tube, and stuffed it in a cargo pocket. I thought about the salt I had purchased, how it was one of the best ways to collapse a large amount of wealth into a small, portable volume of trade. I thought about how salt was once less than a dollar a pound, and how that same pound today was the equivalent of half a month’s wage for a farm worker. I thought about the trade routes between Hollow Rock and Colorado Springs, and the upcoming election, and how nice it would be to have Elizabeth in my bed every night and wake up next to her every morning and finally have the family I thought God or fate or whatever turns the gears of the universe had seen fit to deny me.

  My eyes closed, the fridge hummed, and I decided to close the shop early.

  SEVEN

  Eric was exactly where I expected to find him—picking a fight. Or a sparring match to be more accurate.

  The Ninth Tennessee Volunteer Militia has its own training facilities at Fort McCray just outside of town. I rode my horse there, left him in the public livery, and proceeded to the militia’s corner of the base.

  The gymnasium is a far cry from the empty field where Eric and I once held unarmed combat training for the men and women who risk their lives serving their town. The facility has mat space, punching bags, free weights, and an honest to God boxing ring. Where the guys who built the place found the ring, I have no idea. But I don’t mind using it from time to time. Neither does Eric.

  I climbed the corner, leaned on a turnbuckle, and said, “Keep your hands up, Riordan.”

  Eric looked my way for a bare instant and caught a right hook from Manuel Sanchez. He managed to slip the follow-up overhand left and circle out.

  “You’re an asshole, Gabe.”

  I laughed quietly while the two men finished their round. Sanchez was winning, as usual, but that did not surprise me. Prior to the Outbreak, he was a top-ten ranked welterweight about two or three fights from a title shot. Eric has fast hands, and is the bigger man, but Sanchez is a pro. And there no substitute for pro. My old friend looked relieved when the guy keeping time called for a break.

  “If you want to watch me get beat up, strap on some gloves,” Eric said as he walked over to my corner.

  “I don’t know. You’re getting pretty good these days.”

  He eyed me to see if I was kidding him. I wasn’t.

  “Yeah, well, Sanchez is a good boxing coach.”

  The Pride of Hermosillo looked over his shoulder. “I heard that.”

  “You’re also a dick. You hear that too?”

  “Smartass.”

  I flicked a finger at Sanchez. “You in a nutshell.”

  Eric stripped off his gloves and squirted water into his mouth with a white squeeze bottle. His longish hair dripped with sweat and his shirt was soaked through. “You here for a reason, or you just like busting my balls?”

  “Got plans this afternoon?”

  “You’re looking at them.”

  “Sarah’s putting together a volunteer sweep. Still not too late to sign up. Figured with all the time you’ve been spending at home you could use a little recreation.”

  Eric looked over his shoulder at Sanchez. “You know, I do feel like shooting something.”

  “Good. Clean up. I’ll wait outside.”

  “Right.”

  *****

  “Christ’s sake, Eric. You stink.”

  He sat up straight in the saddle, tilted his head at what he thought was a rakish angle, and said, “I smell like a sporting man possessed of good health and vigor.”

  “Really? I didn’t realize sporting men of good health and vigor smelled like sweaty butthole cheese.”

  “Oh, quit your bitching. Everybody stinks these days. No such thing as deodorant anymore. You’re not exactly a spring lily.”

  The wind picked up, blowing a dusting of snow across the field. Red tossed his mane and rumbled in irritation. I patted his neck and tightened my scarf around my face.

  “There’s normal stink, and then there’s post-workout stink. When I told you to clean up I meant more than just changing your shirt.”

  Deputy Sarah Glover turned around in her saddle and cut the air with an angry hand. “Will you two shut it,” she hissed. “We’re on a sweep for Christ’s sake.”

  We shut it. Sarah glared a few seconds more and then went back to scanning the treeline with her field glasses.

 
; Around us were five other riders, all heavily armed, with Sarah out on point. The day was the gunmetal gray of winter overcast, a strong wind blowing heavy clouds fast across the sky. Loose powder on the open field surrounding Hollow Rock skidded across the ground in streaks of billowing white, ghostly in the afternoon dimness. Red’s hooves sent white puffs of snow cascading in front of his legs with every step, making the already difficult going that much worse. He didn’t like it. The other horses didn’t like it either, and their riders were not any happier.

  Ahead, Sarah held up a fist and leaned back in her saddle. Her mount came to a halt. She turned, pointed two fingers at her eyes, and gave a signal to hold position. Everyone complied. A minute or so passed while Sarah adjusted the lenses and looked through the binoculars again. Finally, she rode back to us and spoke in a low voice.

  “Jackpot. Good sized horde, about two hundred yards north beyond the treeline, moving slow.”

  There was a general nodding of heads. The fact the infected had been slowed by the cold was no surprise. A few degrees colder, and they would have been immobilized completely. Winter may be tough on food production, but it’s a bonanza for ghoul hunters.

  “We’ll let them move halfway across the field,” Sarah went on, “then ride in and circle clockwise. Everyone got your hand weapons?”

  I patted my falcata. Eric patted his military issue MK-9 Anti-Revenant Personal Defense Tool. Which, a thousand years ago, would have been wielded by conscripted Chinese peasants and called a da-dao. Meaning, ‘big knife’. The MK-9 is designed for one thing, and one thing only: chopping. And at that, it excels.

  The other volunteers made similar motions. “All right,” Sarah said. “I’m on point. Riordan, you’re second. Coleman, Morris, Jones, Haynes, and McCoy, in that order. Gabe, you’re on anchor.”

  I let out a breath and cursed silently. The role of anchor was to keep a little distance and be ready to ride in and lend assistance to anyone finding themselves in trouble. Lost weapons, injured horses, thrown riders, that kind of thing. It did not happen very often, especially with experienced guardsmen like the five who had ridden out with us. Which meant I might not see any action today, thereby defeating the purpose of my presence.