Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line

by James N. Cook

  *****

  “Can you believe the fucking luck, Chief?”

  Heinrich smiled at Carter. “A few months ago I’d have said I didn’t believe in luck. But now …”

  Carter picked up an RPG launcher and looked it over. “Two years. Two years of feed bags and junk and slaves and a little food and guns and ammo here and there, and now look at us. And all it took was two good scores.”

  Heinrich scanned the loot they’d won. Three of the fourteen wagons had been loaded with supplies obviously meant for the traders to subsist on during their journey. The rest, however, had contained trade goods. Food, grain, liquor, crossbows, bolts, and in the false bottoms of two wagons, they had discovered twelve RPG launchers and forty rockets. Just two of the launchers and ten of the rockets would have been worth more than the rest of the trade combined. But Heinrich had no intention of selling them. These weapons had a grander destiny.

  Maru approached and tapped his machete against his chest by way of salute. “Finished the BDA, Chief.”

  Heinrich noticed a new guy standing nearby glance at Maru in confusion. “Stands for battle damage assessment,” he told him.

  “Oh. Thank you, sir.”

  Heinrich turned back to Maru. “What did you find?”

  “Four women still alive. Not pretty, but serviceable.”

  “Good. What else?”

  “Rest of the traders are dead except two. One of the new guys, fella named Wells, is interrogating them.”

  Heinrich looked at Carter. “Kindly go supervise. Make sure he doesn’t kill them before we find out where they got these RPGs.”

  “Will do, Chief.”

  As he walked away, Heinrich asked, “How many men did we lose?”

  “Two dead, one wounded.”

  “Wounded man the guy got shot in the shoulder?”

  “Same one.”

  “What’s the damage?”

  “Not bad. Didn’t hit any bones or arteries, medic got the bleeding stopped. Be out of commission a few weeks, though.”

  Heinrich stepped down from the wagon and began walking toward where his men were setting up a perimeter. “He still has one good arm. Tell him to help out around camp until he’s ready to fight again.”

  “Understood.”

  “And give him first crack at the women. Tell him I saw what he did, saw him go down. Tell him I said courage like that deserves to be rewarded.”

  “Will do, Chief.”

  Heinrich stopped and watched his men work. Maru stood with him, a silent presence to his left. After the fight, they had loaded the dead into the wagons and moved everything back to the farmstead where it could be hidden from passersby on the highway. That done, they had hauled the dead into an empty field, set a burial detail for the fallen raiders, and went to work putting up a government-issue anti-revenant temporary settlement barricade. Or, as it was more commonly known, a cable fence.

  The barricade consisted of galvanized steel posts standing nine feet tall, each driven into the ground eight feet apart, with enough half-inch steel cable to surround an eighth of a mile square encampment. His men used post-hole diggers and manually rotated augers to dig the holes for the posts, used sledgehammers to pack them in with dirt, then strung the cables up the posts eight inches apart from bottom to top. The cables were then tightened at various intervals around the perimeter using heavy duty turnbuckles and torque wrenches to ensure proper tension. The men would camp inside the main perimeter while a larger, less heavily reinforced cable fence was set up for the livestock. This one was designed not so much to keep the infected out, but to keep the animals in. If a large horde of ghouls showed up, the raiders would simply release the livestock. The animals knew where their food came from, so if released, no matter how spooked they were, most of them would eventually get hungry and follow their nose back to camp.

  At three sides of the main perimeter, teams of men were putting together pre-fabricated guard towers. The towers were simple wooden affairs held together with nuts and bolts. They could be put up and taken down repeatedly, sparing the raiders the trouble of cutting raw wood and scrounging for nails.

  Heinrich looked over the tents being set up in orderly rows and spotted his large command tent in the center. He turned to Maru. “Walk with me.”

  The two men entered the command tent. Heinrich returned a salute from the guard within and told him to inform the other guards outside to post up out of earshot. The man acknowledged and left.

  “Something on your mind, Chief?”

  Heinrich watched the guards walk away from the entrance, then closed it and sat down on a stool near a small folding table. “Have a seat.”

  Maru sat across from him. There was a combination lockbox on the table from which Heinrich produced a map drawn on graph paper.

  “I was going to wait to tell you about this, but considering what we captured today, I think I’m justified in moving up the timetable.”

  Maru looked at the map. “Is that Parabellum?”

  “It is indeed. Secret tunnels and all.”

  The big Maori grinned, still looking at the map. “Where did you get it?”

  “Let’s just say Necrus Khan is not so well liked among his men.”

  “Too bad for him. And for the fella who gave you this.”

  Heinrich chuckled. Maru’s pragmatism was one of the many things the raider chief liked about him. “Yeah. He’s not around anymore. Can’t have any loose ends.”

  “’Course not.”

  “Any guesses why I went through the trouble of obtaining this map?”

  “Tired of raiding on the dangerous highways of Kansas? Looking for a bigger score, something a bit more permanent?”

  “Something to that effect.”

  Maru’s smile broadened. “Carter know?”

  “He helped me plan it.”

  A nod. “So what did you have in mind, Chief?”

  Heinrich told him. Maru’s expression grew serious as he listened. When Heinrich was finished, Maru sat quietly for a while rubbing his chin.

  “It’s a good plan. Hard part will be getting into position unseen.”

  “True. It’ll have to be a night operation.”

  “Won’t make things any easier.”

  “No. But it’ll be worth it. Just imagine having Parabellum all to ourselves.”

  Maru rubbed his hands together. “That would be nice. What do you want me to do?”

  Straight to the point. I like that. “We’re going to need at least eight infiltrators to make this work. I want you to start vetting the men, find some likely candidates. Carter and I will do the same.”

  “Not a problem. Anything else?”

  “For now, no. But be thorough, Maru. And be discreet.”

  “Right, Chief.”

  Heinrich thanked Maru for his work earlier in the day and dismissed him. When his colonel left, Heinrich sat down in the armchair and put his feet up on the ottoman that were part of the small number of luxuries he allowed himself. He rang a small bell and his steward, a teenage boy too young to fight but old enough to take orders, stepped into his tent. The boy wore a leather cord around his neck to which was attached a metal disk with the skull-and-lightning-bolt emblem of the Storm Road Tribe, an announcement to his men that he was the chief’s servant and was not to be abused. Verbally or otherwise.

  “Sir?”

  “Whisky. Pre-Outbreak stuff. And something to eat.”

  “Yes sir. Right away.”

  The boy shuffled off. Heinrich put his hands behind his head, sank into his chair, and thought about Parabellum. How nice would it be if he could catch Necrus Khan alive, maybe turn him over to Carter? That would be a pleasant day indeed.

  But not for Necrus.

  TWELVE

  “Chief, you awake?”

  Heinrich opened his eyes in the darkness. A small sliver of gray appeared at the back of his wagon as the curtain was moved aside. A dark, head-shaped blob appeared in the middle.

  “I
am now. What is it?”

  “Scouts are back. Say they want to speak with you.”

  “They say what about?”

  “Yeah, but you should probably hear it from them.”

  “All right, Maru. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Right, Chief.”

  Heinrich sat up and rubbed his face and looked at the pocket watch passed down his family line starting with his great grandfather. It told him he had only managed three hours of sleep. Whatever the scouts had to report, it better be good.

  After tugging on his boots and rinsing his mouth with water he climbed out of his wagon and looked around, letting his eyes adjust. There was not much of a moon that night, the majority of light in the camp coming from small, low-banked fires. Knots of men coming off watch huddled around the fires and cooked meals of hard-tack bread, dried peas, and preserved meat. The wagons were arranged in a square, the tents in the middle. Two dozen men were on security patrol at all times. Everyone slept inside the square. Heinrich had foregone his command tent for the last few weeks, opting instead to sleep in his wagon. If any federal types showed up, or if his caravan was surveilled from a distance, he did not want anyone to immediately know who the leader was. The more closely he and his small army resembled legitimate traders, the less likely they were to run into trouble.

  “Maru?”

  “Over here, Chief.”

  Heinrich looked. His colonel stood a few feet to his right, eating a bowl of rehydrated camp rations.

  “You’re going to spill that walking around in the dark.”

  Maru gave his small, tight smile. “Nah. Used to it.”

  “You say so. Lead the way.”

  True to his word, on the walk to where the scouts sat around their cook fire, Maru did not spill a drop. Heinrich watched him and realized there was nothing particularly special about how he accomplished this. He kept his eyes forward, watched the ground in front of him, and let his hands and mouth go through the motions of eating automatically, as if on autopilot. The kind of thing anyone could do with concentration and practice. Heinrich had a feeling those two qualities, concentration and practice, had a lot to do with why Maru excelled at a great many things.

  “Here we are, Chief.”

  The scouts began to stand as Heinrich approached, but he hissed at them and motioned them to stop. “What are my orders?”

  The men froze, then sat down. “Sorry, sir. Won’t happen again,” one of them said.

  “It damn well better not. Now what do you have to report?”

  “We scouted out the settlements around the Wichita Safe Zone. Talked to our contacts there.”

  “And?” Heinrich said impatiently.

  “The troops stationed there just rotated out last week,” the scout said. “Got a bunch of new guys.”

  Heinrich looked at the scout closely and saw, beneath the beard and scraggly long hair, he was speaking to a kid in his early twenties. He made a motion for the young man to continue.

  “Get to the point.”

  “Well, sir, the troops there are new to the place, don’t know their way around. Still learning emergency drills and procedures, that sort of thing. And there’s about half as many as there used to be. Won’t be able to mount much of a force if someone hits a caravan near the safe zone.”

  Heinrich stared a moment in silence. He had an idea where this was going. “I’m waiting for the part where you tell me why you thought it necessary to wake me from my sleep.”

  The scout clutched his food bowl and shuffled his feet in the dirt. “There’s a big caravan coming in soon, run by a guy named Spike. Informants say he’s a rich man. Supposed to be eighty-four wagons, all hauling trade bound for the springs.”

  “What kind of trade?”

  “Salt, ammo, guns, food, maple syrup from up north, rice from down south, salvage, candles, soap, all kinds of stuff. And lots of it.”

  Heinrich put his hands on his hips and considered this development. The Wichita Safe Zone was well-guarded by the Army—infantry, artillery, air support, the works. But any army is only as good as its troops. Heinrich had been listening to the bulletins the president made every week. He knew a huge number of troops were finishing their enlistments and opting to leave the military, meaning most of the soldiers being sent to Wichita were new recruits. Probably never even seen real, pitched combat. If he could find this caravan, hit them well out of sight of the troops and other caravans, he just might pull it off. It would be taking a huge risk, but if what the scout said was true, well worth the reward.

  “When is this caravan due to arrive?”

  “Three to four days, sir. Depends.”

  Heinrich turned to Maru. “Put more scouts in the field at first light. I want this caravan found, and I want it tracked. Notify Carter first thing in the morning and get the senior officers together at the livestock pens by nine-hundred hours. Mandatory.”

  “Right, Chief.”

  He turned back to the scouts. “Who else knows about this?”

  The senior scout shook his head. “No one, sir. Just you and Colonel Maru.”

  “Keep it that way. I mean it—you two keep your fucking mouths shut. You blab about this, you’ll never blab about anything ever again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes sir. Very clear, sir.”

  “Good.”

  Heinrich bored into the scouts with his gaze, watching them wither under its heat. Satisfied they knew the score, Heinrich headed back to his wagon, smiling inwardly. He thought to himself that in the ongoing debate as to whether it was better to be respected or feared, he had always found fear the far more useful emotion. Respect was just a side effect.

  THIRTEEN

  Eric

  Six weeks’ travel from Hollow Rock found us a day’s ride outside of the Wichita Safe Zone.

  It was bitterly cold and overcast most of the way. We crossed the Mississippi on the western border of Kentucky and then began the long slog across Missouri. Or Misery, as the traders in Spike’s caravan not-so-lovingly called it.

  Wild game was plentiful, even in winter, but the weather and the harsh terrain made for slow, difficult going. By the second week, I was very, very tired of having to get out and put my shoulder to a wheel and push the wagon out of a rut or pothole or mud-slop or whatever crap we had become mired in whilst serenaded by the grunting and cursing of Gabe, Hicks, and Elizabeth. Sabrina did not have to push a wheel, being that she was the smallest and lightest of us and someone had to hold the reins and beseech the oxen to pull.

  The road flattened as we approached the Kansas border, and though at first I was grateful, I quickly grew weary of the steady, unending, monotonous sheen of white overlaying what would be tall fields of wheat and barley come spring.

  If not for the maps and GPS units we had with us, I would have been completely lost. The roads were invisible. The plains seemed to stretch on forever, broken up by the occasional patch of woodland or pitched roofs of houses, farms, and small bits of crumbing civilization. We stopped four times at settlements to resupply and send brief HAM radio messages back to Hollow Rock to let our friends and loved ones know we were still alive and as safe as could be expected. My sleeping bag was supposed to be rated down to -35 degrees Fahrenheit, but I still woke up shivering every morning. The only redeeming quality of the bleak Kansas winter was there were no infected to be found.

  At night, when I lay alone and cold, I thought of my wife and son and missed them and wondered if I had made the right decision coming along on this trip. I certainly had done nothing of significant value thus far, and had encountered no opportunities to expand my business interests westward. A very loud, very persistent voice in my head was telling me I had made a mistake. I told the voice Gabriel was my friend, and we had been through too much together not to tag along with him this one last time. The voice asked if I really thought this was our last journey together, and when I answered in the affirmative, the voice laughed uproariously. I told the voice to shut up and
resolved to ignore it from then on.

  The day before we reached Wichita I sat in the driver’s seat, reins in hand, with Sabrina riding shotgun. Literally—she was holding Hicks’ Benelli. Gabe had ridden off somewhere to inquire where his cargo would be stored while we were in the Safe Zone. Elizabeth lay snoring gently on her bedroll behind me. Caleb was riding in a wagon with some ex-Army type he knew from the battle of Singletary Lake. So, for all intents and purposes, Sabrina and I had the place to ourselves.

  “You know a lot about business and trade and shit, right?”

  I looked at the girl next to me. For the last hour, she had said nothing, just stared at the empty vastness of the snow-covered Kansas plain, lost in her own thoughts. It took me a few seconds to clear my throat and answer.

  “Yeah. I know a bit.”

  She flicked a hand toward the beasts drawing our cart. “Where do the caravans get those things? I don’t remember oxen being that common when I was a kid.”

  “You ever eat a cheeseburger before the Outbreak?”

  A low, hungry sound. “God yes. Loved the things. Don’t remind me, haven’t had one since I was ten.”

  “Ever see a grocery store or a restaurant running short on beef?”

  “No. What’s your point?”

  “My point is the pre-Outbreak cattle population in this country was massive. And oxen are cattle. Specifically, castrated bulls.”

  “Castrated? Why?”

  “Makes them more docile, easier to train.”

  “Still doesn’t tell me where they come from.”

  “They come from all over. Back four years ago, when it was obvious the government had collapsed and everything was going to hell, most ranchers turned their livestock loose. Figured they had a better chance roaming wild than starving to death in holding pens.”