Swanson looked at the Blackthorn, then at Gabe, then turned on his heel and stormed off toward the guard shack. Through the window, I saw him sit down behind a desk and open a laptop.
“Probably checking your file in the Archive,” I said.
“Yep.”
“I wonder if we’ll see the very moment he learns you’re telling the truth.”
A smirk. “Keep watching.”
Sure enough, as we watched, the angered expression evacuated Swanson’s face and was replaced by a wide-eyed, horrified realization. He closed the laptop, grabbed a box of small papers, and began writing furiously. Finished, he composed himself and returned to where we stood.
“Here you go,” Swanson said, handing over the passes.
Gabe took them. “Where do I pay the fee?”
Swanson did not make eye contact. “Supply building, north gate. The green converted shipping container.”
“Thank you. And do yourself a favor, Sergeant Swanson.” Gabe leaned in close. “Be honest from now on. I’ll be keeping tabs on you.”
With that, we went back to our wagon. I managed to hold the laughter in until we were out of earshot, but it was a near thing.
“Gotta tell you, old buddy. It’s a pleasure to watch you work.”
Gabe did not answer, but I could see the amusement in his eyes.
FIFTEEN
When I hear the word ‘marketplace’ I generally think of the market in Hollow Rock near the north gate. I expect a vibrant, bustling place of smiles and laughter and haggling and good-natured shouts of merchants exhorting the value and quality of their wares. I expect the smell of food and wood-smoke in the air, the laughter of excited children, the sound of wagers being placed in gambling booths, the odor of marijuana smoke from head shops (which, in Hollow Rock, were conveniently located next to the food vendors in a mutually beneficial strategic partnership).
The market in the Wichita Safe Zone was certainly bustling, but it would have been ambitious to the point of disingenuousness to call it vibrant. There was no shouting. No one seemed good-natured. There was some smiling and laughing, but it was muted and conducted between members of the same caravan, not between traders and merchants. There were very few children present, mostly teenagers. This was not a place where people came to have a good time.
“Looks kind of dull,” Sabrina said, echoing my thoughts.
“I hear it livens up at night,” Gabe replied.
“So what’s our first stop?” Hicks said. It was the first thing I had heard him say since rejoining us. I glanced his way and noticed him looking around curiously, eyes taking in everything.
“Local smithy,” Gabe said. “Commissioned a blade for the little lady.”
Sabrina shot him a glare. “Since you’re buying me a sword, I’ll let that ‘little lady’ shit slide.”
“Oh for Christ’s sake, Sabrina” I said. “He didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Now children,” Elizabeth cut in. “It’s a nice day and there’s shopping to be done. Let’s all play nicely, okay?”
I shook my head at the ingratitude of youth. Sabrina lapsed into sullen silence. Gabe patted her on the shoulder, but otherwise left her alone. Caleb, as always, looked indifferent.
The sound of the forge reached us shortly ahead of the smell. I could detect at least two hammers beating on something metal and wrinkled my nose at the acrid scent of charcoal burning at over fifteen-hundred degrees. The forge itself was a squat structure built from a patchwork of mismatched bricks and homemade mortar with several cylindrical steel chimneys jetting black smoke into the sky. A gangly, pimple-faced boy of no more than thirteen greeted us at the door.
“Welcome to Wichita Custom Fabricators. What can I do for you?”
Gabe spoke up. “Name is Gabriel Garrett. Commissioned a blade about two months ago. Message came via radio from Hollow Rock over in Tennessee.” He produced a slip from his shirt pocket. “Here’s your confirmation of receipt.”
The boy read the slip, nodded to himself, and said, “Just a moment, sir.”
We waited while the boy disappeared into the darkness of the forge. He returned a moment later smiling obsequiously.
“Do you have your method of payment with you, sir?”
Gabe patted an old Army messenger bag slung across his chest. The boy stepped aside and gestured for Gabe to enter. He did, followed by Sabrina. The rest of us waited at the entrance until, a minute or two later, Sabrina emerged grinning broadly. For a few seconds I had the feeling I was seeing what she may have looked like had the Outbreak never happened, none of the cynicism and suspicion and canned violence, the face of a happy teenage girl unmarred by trauma or tragedy. It was a bittersweet thing to see, and I had to remind myself not to dwell on things that could not be changed.
“You gotta see this thing,” Sabrina said to me.
“Is it nice?”
“It’s fucking badass.”
I gestured to the cloth-wrapped bundle in her arms. “Let’s see it.”
“Not here,” Gabe said. “Too many eyes. People might get funny ideas.”
“Right. Well, I’m hungry anyway.”
“Seconded,” Elizabeth said. “I smell something good coming from up the street.”
Gabe made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Lead the way.”
She did, and as she walked ahead of me, I could not help but notice the form-fitting cut of her pants and how trim and well-muscled her legs and butt were. I allowed myself a few moments of admiration and then stared at the ground for the remainder of the walk and thought to myself that I really, really needed to get back to Allison.
*****
Two days later, it was time to leave.
The others were already back with our gear, our newly replenished supplies, and our wagon. I lingered a while that morning on the rooftop deck of our hotel, mug of tea in hand, staring at the Kansas plains stretching endlessly westward. It was warm that morning, nearly seventy degrees, with the first hints of spring whispering in the mid-March air. There was no reason for me to stay behind; Gabe and Elizabeth had seen to our supplies, and Sabrina and Caleb had taken care of our laundry. I was bathed, shaved, hair neatly trimmed, and I had done an outstanding job the last couple of days of holding down a barstool and paying too much for medium-quality hooch at the hotel’s tiny bar.
I knew the day was going to move quickly, but I could not seem to work up the motivation to settle my bill and check out. And as underwhelmed as I had initially been with the newly-constructed wooden lobby and bare floors and creaky stairs of the Heartland Inn and Tavern, I had to admit I was going to miss the place. The beds were clean, the staff was friendly, and someone came by to empty the composting toilet every evening. Certainly beat the hell out of life on the road.
I sipped my overpriced tea and thought about Allison and my infant son and how, if I got home on time, I was going to have missed six months of my little boy growing up. Granted, I was missing out on the screaming and crying and soiled diapers portion of his upbringing, but I regretted not being there nonetheless. I didn’t mind so much when he screamed and cried. It was gratifying to calm him down and feel him relax and fall asleep in my arms. And while changing and cleaning cloth diapers a few dozen times a day—or so it felt—was no picnic, I found would rather be doing that than sitting here on this rooftop with a heavy feeling in the bottom of my gut at the prospect of climbing back into that goddamn wagon and spending another six weeks on the road. And that was not counting the journey back to Hollow Rock.
Maybe I could pull some strings with General Jacobs and get myself on a military flight back home. It would be ridiculously expensive, but getting there in a matter of hours versus a minimum of twelve weeks would be more than worth it.
A door opened on the ground floor and I heard footsteps on the stairs leading to the roof. A waiter stopped next to me and asked if I would like anything else. I drained the last of my tea and told him no, I’d be checking out in just a few minut
es. He thanked me for no reason, the way hotel staff always do, and left. I put my cup down.
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” I said aloud. “You started this with your eyes wide open. Now finish it.”
I stood up, gathered my things from my room, paid my bill by measuring out four ounces of sugar into a small bowl on a scale in the hotel kitchen, and headed for the caravan district.
*****
There were three additional horses attached by lead ropes to the tailgate. Caleb sat atop a fourth one I had never seen before.
“What’s with the extra livestock?” I asked as I slung my rucksack and duffel bag of weapons into the rear of the wagon.
“Weather’s warming up,” Gabe said. “Infected and marauders will be out and about. Figured we ought to take some sensible precautions.”
I walked over to the horses and let them sniff at me. “Which one is mine?”
“The one trying to bite your ear.”
The horse in question was not really trying to bite my ear. Horses have a way of probing at people with their semi-prehensile upper lips by way of greeting. Still, it tickled and I gently nudged the horse’s muzzle away. He was a brown gelding, not quite as tall as Red but sturdily built, possessed of the confident, unhurried manner of a horse used to being ridden long distances.
“Seems friendly enough.”
“Get used to him. You’re going to be spending a lot of time together. Only one person in the wagon the rest of the way. I want everyone else on horseback, full loadout. So suit up.”
I let out a sigh and wiped a hand across the back of my neck. It was probably pointless to argue with Gabe about this, but I had to try. “Don’t you think you’re being a little paranoid?”
“No.”
“There are eighty wagons in this caravan.”
“Eighty-four, actually.”
“And no less than a hundred and twenty people, all armed, driving them. And an additional thirty guards on horseback, two of whom are Blackthorns.”
“So?”
“So marauders travel in small bands, typically no more than twenty or thirty. And they’re not known for negotiating strong alliances. You’d have to be nuts to take on this caravan with anything less than a hundred people on horseback.”
“It could be done with less if they were well trained.”
“Which most raiders are not.”
“And your point is?”
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. “My point is this is unnecessary. Riding in the wagon is exhausting enough.”
“Tell you what, Eric. When we get safely to Colorado Springs, I’ll buy you dinner and as many drinks as you want, and you can say ‘I told you so’ until you’re blue in the face. But until then, we do this my way.”
As usual, his tone brooked no argument. “Fine. But you better set aside some serious trade. I plan to have many, many drinks on your dime.”
“I sincerely hope you do.”
“By the way,” I said, climbing into the wagon and rooting for my MOLLE vest. “How much did the horses cost us?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m selling them as soon as we get to Colorado.”
I found my vest and spare ammo and began gearing up. “Never let it be said you’re not a practical man, Gabe.”
“Glad you noticed.”
SIXTEEN
Heinrich sat at his table, a plate of half-eaten food shoved to one corner, a map of Kansas spread out before him. He heard footsteps approaching his tent—a small one, not his command tent—and the flap was moved aside.
“They’re here, sir.”
“Send them in.”
Maru and Carter entered the tent and sat down on the canvas and small rugs covering the ground. Heinrich spun the map around so they could read it.
“Just got word from the scouts. We move tonight.”
Carter’s perpetual snarl moved slightly under his beard in what, for him, passed for a smile. “What’s the plan?”
Heinrich poked a spot on the map with a thick index finger. “They’ve stopped for the night here, near Haviland.”
“Think I remember Haviland,” Maru said. “Place is abandoned, right? We holed up there for a while last year.”
“Right. Army stripped it for salvage, but the buildings are still standing.”
Carter grunted. “Yeah. I remember the place.”
“Good. That’ll make things easier. So here’s what we’re going to do. Infantry will barracks in the school gymnasium, we’ll hide the livestock and wagons at the old farm co-op on the south side of town. Plenty of barns and storage buildings, perfect place to deploy the cavalry.”
“How far from town is the caravan camping?” Maru asked.
“Four miles, give or take.”
Carter did the math in his head. “We’ll have to ride hard tonight to get ahead of them.”
“Nothing we haven’t done before. We’ll head overland, stay a mile north of them and then swing southward when we get to Haviland. Gives us three, maybe four hours’ rest before the attack.”
“Not much time,” Maru said.
“Again, nothing we haven’t done before.”
“How sure are we they’re following this route?” Maru asked, pointing at Highway 400 on the map.
“They’ve been following it since Wichita. Have to go overland to find another route. I doubt they’re going to do that at this point.”
Maru nodded.
“I’ll have the men charge radios and NVGs,” Carter said. “All the deep-cycles are maxed out. We’re on straight solar at the moment.”
“Use the batteries,” Heinrich said. “Button up the solar rig and get it on a wagon. I want the tribe on the road as soon as possible.”
“Yes sir.”
“You two know what to do. Make it happen.”
The two colonels acknowledged and left the tent. Heinrich instructed his servant to leave the tent and post a guard to make sure he was not disturbed. When the boy left to carry out his orders, Heinrich opened his pack, removed his infrared scope, and connected the battery pack to a Yeti charging station he had taken for his own personal use.
“One more big score,” he muttered to himself. “And then on to Parabellum.”
SEVENTEEN
Gabriel
Eric complained the first couple of days. But then again, Eric always complains.
I endured his bitching stoically and refused to relent making everyone not driving the wagon stay on horseback. Nor did I relax the loadout requirements. Everyone carried an M-4 as a primary weapon, Beretta M-9 as secondary, some kind of revolver as a backup, a hand weapon, knife, and camping axe, and in our saddlebags, we all carried five days’ worth of food, four liters of water, survival and first aid kits, spare ammunition, radios, solar trickle chargers with inverters and charging ports, two changes of clothes, five changes of socks, spare boots, suppressors for both the rifles and the pistols, and whatever extra firearms each person wanted to bring along. For Caleb, it was his Benelli shotgun and SCAR sniper rifle; for Eric his M-110; Elizabeth and Sabrina had Ruger 10-22 rifles with short-range scopes (it took some convincing to get Sabrina to part with her little .22 Marlin, but I eventually sold her on the Ruger’s superiority); and for me, a classic Marine Corps M-40 sniper rifle and my trusty Desert Tactical SRS chambered in .338 Lapua magnum.
The weather continued to improve the farther west we traveled, but I did not regard this as a good thing. It was nice not to freeze my ass off at night, but I knew it was only a matter of time until we made contact with infected or marauders. According to Spike, raiders in the area were fond of late night strafing runs intended to nab a small bit of loot and ride off into the darkness. I thought about my infrared scope and goggles, and the NVGs a few of Spike’s security crew possessed, and told Spike I felt sorry for the raiders who attempted such a thing against his caravan. He grinned and said, “I don’t.”
During the day, I watched the horizon. At night, I wandered out on foot and scouted the plains
with my IR scope, alert for the slightest movement. By the fourth day, I was reasonably certain we were being followed, and whoever was doing it was no amateur. I expressed my concerns to Spike.
“So what else is new?” he said with a shrug. “Raider assholes are always following us.”
“The guy I spotted, he’s no rookie. I was a scout sniper in the Marines. I know training when I see it.”
Another shrug. “So he follows us. Nothing to worry about until he or whoever he’s working for tries something. They do, we’ll end ‘em.”
“I don’t like this, Spike. You should send your Blackthorns after him. Capture him. Find out who he’s working for.”
“I’m telling you Gabe, it don’t matter. Look around. They’d need an army to take us on. These raiders on the plains, they’re small time. They know better.”
I let the matter drop, but resolved to remain vigilant.
My sense of unease grew until the seventh night out of Wichita. I spotted the guy following us again—at least I’m reasonably certain it was a guy and not a woman—about five hundred meters to the north. This time, there was someone with him. I stayed low and cranked up the magnification on my IR scope, and sure enough, they were watching us through a night vision spotting rig. No ordinary gear, that, and I sincerely doubted they had traded for it. Unless by trade, one meant demanding it at gunpoint or swiping it from an overrun military patrol.
I watched them for a couple of hours, but when it became clear they had no ambitions of approaching and whoever they were scouting for was nowhere in sight, I made my way back to the caravan. Once back at camp, I searched until I found Caleb and Eric and asked them to follow me back to the wagon.
“Why?” Eric asked, falling into step with me. “I know that look, Gabe. What’s going on?”
“Later. Let’s find the others.”
We did and gathered everyone around the cook fire in the center of camp. Our wagon was on the inner perimeter just behind us. I checked the horses, made sure our gear was in order, sat down with the others, and motioned for them to listen.
Surviving the Dead (Book 7): The Killing Line Page 16