Divided We Fall (Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Book 6)

by W. J. Lundy

  There was another door—gray steel with a push bar. Joe hit it hard and found himself in the bright light of a fenced-in loading dock. A chain secured the closed gates and barbed wire ran along the top of the fence. Joe heard the charging mob inside closing in on him; he pushed back, shoving the door hard. Next to him was a reel of fire hose and Joe grabbed at it. Unwinding as fast as he could, he wrapped the door’s handle with the heavy hose and tied it shut just as the first of the infected monsters collided with it.

  The hose pulled tight, but held. The door pushed open just enough for Joe to see the faces of the infected as they attempted to squeeze out. He reached for his hip; his pistol was gone, as was his machete, lost somewhere in the market. He was unarmed and alone. Nobody would know where he was… nobody would be coming for him.

  Joe-Mac stepped away from the building to examine its shape and size, looking for a way out. Conduit with U-shaped brackets bolted in every few feet ran vertically on the outside walls all the way to the roof. With just enough of a gap that he could wrap his hands around them, he grabbed the gray plastic pipes, pulled hard, and found them tightly secured to the block wall.

  More of the infected were gathering at the chain link fences behind him; the mass began pushing against it, causing the poles to lean inward. Joe-Mac reached up, gripped the conduit, and began shimmying up the side of the building. He scaled the building as fast as he could, pulling up his feet and pinching tight before reaching up, one hand at a time, then pulling himself up again.

  His arms shaking, he reached the top ledge and pulled himself onto the roof. He rolled over the short knee wall, dropped to the asphalt coating, and lay on his back catching his breath while listening to the things below. Looking up at the blue sky, Joe-Mac clenched his eyes shut tight and said, “Why didn’t I let them talk me out of this?”

  His bag and belongings were all below and inside, far from reach—somewhere between the supermarket’s pharmacy and produce section. He sure as hell wouldn’t be going back for them. Not without an army. Where did they all come from? He was doing fine until he turned on his light; then they were everywhere, swarming in from out of the dark.

  Joe shook his head and sat up, not wanting to think about what could’ve happened.

  “You messed up good today, boy,” he said.

  Joe-Mac got to his feet and moved across the roof, back to the street side. The supermarket parking lot was empty except for a few burned-out cars and rusted shopping carts. Across the street was a mom-and-pop sporting goods store and next to that, an auto parts store. The gas station on the corner was nothing more than a burned-out hulk. The village of Seneca, West Virginia, had seen better days.

  He was alone on a roof in the middle of nowhere… an all too familiar feeling. Loneliness didn’t bother him. He’d lived a solitary life after leaving high school and most of his childhood life behind. Divorced parents in different cities. A few girls in far-off towns. No real career aspirations to speak of, he took odd jobs to pay for gas, working on construction sites or as a farmhand. He thought he’d have to grow up one day, but the apocalypse changed all of that.

  Joe moved to the far corner of the building. He spotted his pickup truck where he’d left it at the far edge of the lot, tucked in behind overgrown shrubs. The area was clear, all of the infected having moved to the back of the store. He needed to leave.

  Joe could still hear them pounding against the fence and the fire door. With no time to waste and not wanting to find himself trapped outside after dark, he decided to make his move. He pulled himself over the front of the store’s face and hung so that his arms were fully extended then dropped to the fiberglass awning below. He hit hard and slipped on the surface made slick by weeks of mildew and decaying leaves, which coated the awning with slime. Before he could grab on to something solid, he began sliding and felt himself falling over the edge.

  He thumped against the pavement, seeing stars as the wind left his body. Joe-Mac lay motionless, silently taking inventory of his body and listening to the surroundings. He was alone, nothing felt broken. He rolled to his belly and pushed up to his knees. Joe-Mac saw the truck, only a couple hundred yards away. He could easily make it—just get up and go.

  “No,” he said.

  Joe-Mac didn’t want to return to the cabin empty-handed, especially without the meds for Dan’s granddaughter. He didn’t need much, just something for the fever; aspirin would work, but antibiotics would be better. Joe promised the man he’d get them, and he didn’t like to break promises.

  He could see the sporting goods store, the front glass broken and the door kicked in. The shop used to have racks for long guns and a case full of pistols. That would all be gone now. Maybe he could find some camping gear… anything to make up for losing his pack and weapons. Joe took another quick look in both directions and stepped off toward the store.

  The way was clear. The sunlight shone brightly; he thought that would keep most of them indoors. Joe looked back over his shoulder at the supermarket. “Yeah, they’re all in there,” he said. “I’ll be all right.”

  Joe picked up a quick pace, nearly a jog, not wanting to be caught in the open. He crossed the street quickly and stopped along the brick wall of the storefront. Keeping his back to the wall, he moved to the edge of the window and peeked inside the building. Just as he had suspected, the weapons racks were bare; shelves once heavily stocked with ammunition, now cleared out. The glass countertop and gun case were broken and swept clean. In the back, he could still see shelves; covered in shadows, they may still hold something. He had to try.

  Joe crouched low and moved into the doorway. He grabbed the edge of the wooden door and tried to push it closed. It swung easily, but the frame was twisted and the door refused to latch. Looking out, he spotted the infected moving back to the front lot. Several wandered between him and his truck. He desperately needed a weapon, something to fight his way back to the vehicle. Joe slid a metal trashcan from across the room and placed it in front of the door. It would at least provide warning if someone, or something, tried to sneak in behind him. Joe moved along the wall of the store and saw nothing but empty shelves. A sign hanging from the ceiling near the back read backpacks/camping gear. Joe moved in the direction, his hopes crushed when he saw them picked clean. He knelt down, pondering his situation, eyes searching the floor.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  At the bottom of the shelf was a small pink-and-black “Hello Kitty” book bag. Joe shook his head disgustedly then reached down and lifted the bag. He opened the compartments and dumped the bag’s tissue paper stuffing. Joe continued to the back of the store through camping equipment to find an open tent with no poles, empty sleeping bag boxes, a cast iron skillet, and a large coffee can filled with tent stakes. Growing frustrated, he moved on into the game areas. A bin filled with basketballs and footballs and an empty rack where baseball bats would have rested—everything was gone.

  Joe walked with his head down, searching; on a bottom shelf was a box of pool balls and a carbon fiber pool cue, stronger and less brittle than wood. Having no other weapon, he reached down and lifted the cue. It was a little long so he unscrewed and separated the thin upper section. Now the weight of the bottom half felt better in his grip. He slapped it into his open palm and felt the sting… it needed more. He looked down at the box of balls then peeled open the cardboard and removed the triangle before searching until he separated the eight ball from the rest. He held the black ball against the length of the stick and smiled.

  In his youth, at summer camp, he had learned to braid and weave rope. In one class, he learned to lash stones to the ends of sticks to make tomahawks. Looking at the perfectly shaped shaft and round ball, he had a better idea; if he could locate enough rope, he could weave this into a mace. On his way to the back office, he had his only bit of luck and spotted a wall of climbing gear. Once again, all the axes were gone but there was plenty of coiled nylon rope.

  Grabbing a bundle of rope
, Joe pushed on the office door and entered the back room. Small and damp, light shone in from a large hole in the ceiling to show everything in the back office tossed over and ransacked. Joe smiled when he looked at the back wall; at shoulder height, rested a first-aid kit with the latch closed. He moved toward it quickly and placed his hand on the cover, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before he opened it. The kit was untouched and full of goods. He dumped the contents into the Hello Kitty backpack.

  Relieved, his mission for medication now accomplished, he relaxed the tension in his body and checked his wind-up wristwatch—still plenty of daylight. Joe cleared a spot on the floor then dropped down to begin building his mace. He weaved the rope, heating it with his Zippo to make it adhere tightly to the form of the cue, strengthening it while he wrapped it around the handle, and firmly attaching the ball to the end. As he weaved, he imagined the damage it would do. With the top firmly attached, he felt the weapon’s weight and swung it, feeling the power. Later, he would have to find some varnish or heavy resin to lock it all into place, but for now, it would do. Joe-Mac stood before taking a short swing and crushing a coffee pot resting on a small desk then smiled.

  “Yeah… This’ll do.”

  Chapter 5

  The long and tall HEMTT bounced and rolled with every pothole. Brad’s teeth vibrated as he choked on the diesel fumes that wafted in over the sides of the long cargo bed. The lieutenant allowed them to tag along on the patrol, but having no extra room in the security vehicles, stuck them in the M977 with the work party. Brad scanned the faces of the young soldiers, male and female alike, armed with rifles, wearing Kevlar helmets and body armor. Brad and Brooks dressed in camouflage combat shirts and stripped-down Kevlar helmets. With most gear becoming scarce, they were resupplied with the essentials. At the center of the truck bed, there was a long pile of shovels, axes, and rakes. The soldiers’ faces revealed fear and worry, but mostly exhaustion.

  A USMC LAV-25 scouted the way out front and an Army Bradley took up the rear position. As the convoy drew closer to the fire, they picked up traces of the pungent smoke mixing in with the diesel. Brooks tapped him on the arm and pointed to the west at the thick column of black rolling smoke.

  He pointed down at the shovels in the center of the truck. “They ain’t fighting that with shovels.”

  “Then why are we here?” Brad asked.

  The truck’s brakes crunched and the passengers all shifted forward then jerked as the vehicle made an abrupt stop. They heard the sounds of the squeaking tracks as the Bradley drew closer then scraped across the pavement, turning so that it blocked the rear deck. Instead of dropping a cargo gate, men hoisted a specially crafted ladder over the edge and attached a side to the truck’s bed. Brad and Brooks moved to the front of the line, getting out of the truck before the chain gang started unloading their equipment.

  Brad went down first, dropping to the ground and stepping away from the truck. Soldiers and Marines in full kit were already spreading out and forming a perimeter. He watched a pair of soldiers uncoil a long strand of barbed wire. Brooks dropped to the ground behind him, and then turned toward the front of the convoy. The clack of a suppressed rifle caused them to crouch down. One of the security members looked back at them. “Don’t sweat it; just the snipers up front.”

  Brad shook his head at the soldier’s comment and continued. The LAV at the front was parked perpendicular to the HEMTT, its turret aiming into a far-off town. Two scout snipers were lying prone across the top of the armored hull. The lieutenant was standing near the rear ramp of the LAV. Young and wiry, his uniform pressed, he was clean-shaven and wore a shiny pistol on his belt. He held a partially folded map in his left hand, comparing it to a list of coordinates on a sheet of paper.

  Brad strolled up next to him and said, “If you’re looking for the fire it’s over there.”

  “I know where the fire is at; what I don’t know is where all the Primals are,” he snapped. “Morning air recon had that town covered with them. Where did they all go?” He folded the map and stuffed it into a cargo pocket then looked to the front of the LAV, where a group of soldiers had clustered. “Sergeant Johnson, get a recon patrol ready.”

  Brooks stepped forward, looked at the map, and then made a 360. “Fire may have pushed them out of the town and into the woods… maybe across the road here. That smoke is still a hell of a long ways off though.”

  The lieutenant looked up, nodding his head. “That’s what I’m afraid of. They get across this road and into the woods, the only thing on the other side is Savannah’s perimeter; the packs shouldn’t be this far ahead of the fire.”

  Brad looked back at the lieutenant. “What’s all this got to do with fighting a fire?”

  “Fighting a fire? Ha! No, the colonel sent us out here to establish an observation post. He wanted us to pinpoint and track Primal movement ahead of the fire, try to turn them if we can.”

  A young sergeant cut to the rear of the vehicle with four other men close behind. “Sir, we’re ready—”

  Brooks lifted a hand, catching the young officer’s attention. “Lieutenant, why don’t you let me and my partner here join your patrol? They might need help if this horde shows up.”

  The lieutenant looked away, staring into the forest on the east side of the road, then back toward the far-off town. “Okay, but you’re just along for the extra firepower. My man’s in charge.”

  “No problem, sir. And could I make a suggestion?” Brooks added.

  The lieutenant sighed and looked Brooks in the eye. “I’m listening, but make it quick.”

  Brooks moved closer and spoke low so that the patrol standing behind him could not hear. “I say to hell with this post you’re setting up, sir… get your men mounted back up in the trucks, weapons out and ready to fight. Have the LAV ready to come get us if shit goes sideways. If you have any pull, I’d request to get that Predator back in the air.”

  The young lieutenant looked Brooks in the eye again, and then casually swept the surrounding terrain. “Thank you for the suggestion. I’m sure we can take care of ourselves.” The lieutenant backed away and looked at his squad leader. “Patrol to the village center then report back to me for orders.”

  The young sergeant nodded his head then looked to Brooks and Brad. “Roger that… Petty Officer, Sergeant Turner, we’re moving; if you want to tag along, now’s the time.”

  Brad nodded and turned back to face Brooks, who shot him a grin and stepped off following the patrol leader. Brad pulled his rifle into his chest and fell in line with the rest of the men as he moved ahead of the Bradley and through a break in the concertina wire. As the men moved out, he spun back and saw that the lieutenant had not heeded their suggestion; he was still posting his men around the perimeter and forming a small observation post.

  Brad’s mind flashed back to a time, months earlier in the deserts of Afghanistan, to a patrol on the other side of the planet. Moving on, patrolling ahead while the remains of his unit formed a similar ill-fated perimeter. His foot fell hard against the pavement as tension twisted the muscles in his back.

  “No, this isn’t Afghanistan,” he whispered to himself.

  A soldier near Brad turned to look back. “You say something, Sergeant?”

  Brad swept his head left and right. They were moving in a staggered column down a two-lane blacktop road—high grass on the left and right sides, tall trees fifty feet off the road to the right, and open field to the left. They were less than a few football fields from the first buildings straight ahead. Brad was walking two paces behind Brooks, who moved quickly to stay next to the patrol leader.

  Brad looked up at the soldier to his front-left. “Nahh, just thinking… you patrolled this road before?” he asked.

  “A few times, but mostly by vehicle—just route recons. We usually stick to the city side of the fort; that’s where most of the action’s at.”

  “So what’s the story back here?” Brad said.

  The soldier sl
owed his pace and looked back over his shoulder. “Back here?” He put his right hand up and pointed far down the road. “Ain’t nothing back here or anywhere else. It’s all rot nowadays. I don’t even know why we waste our time on these damn patrols. This town up ahead… been through it a half dozen times; nothing but Primals in there.”

  Brad picked up his pace so that he could fall in next to the soldier. “How many?”

  “Not a lot; we cleared most of ’em out, but they filter down from the northwest. Guess that’s why the colonel wants us to keep an eye on the place. In case the fire pushes more at us.”

  A soldier walking point far ahead of the patrol put a fist in the air. The rest of the men slowed their advance and spread out, taking a knee around a central portion of the road. Brad passed through the circle and knelt next to Brooks. They stayed together while the sergeant in charge of the patrol jogged forward to speak with the point man. They were nearing the mouth of the small town. Looking left and right, Brad noticed how exposed they were on the open road. He could feel the electricity in the air as the hair on his neck began to stiffen.

  “We need to get off this road,” Brad said.

  Brooks’ head stayed in motion, searching the distant structures and tree line. “You see something?”

  A gunshot cracked.

  Chapter 6

  Dust swirled thick, moving across the neighboring city in a dense cloud, blocking out the sun and pushing a cold breeze ahead of it. Turner stood at the edge of the warehouse roof, watching the sandstorm building strength. It twisted as it moved from street to street, blocking his view of the rooftops in the distance, the tan buildings quickly concealed by the snarling sand.